Pawn Takes King
by Lunavere
Summary: John Watson had always assumed that he would never play a major role in Moriarty's game. He is taken by surprise when Moriarty makes a shocking demand: one month with John Watson in exchange for Britain's tactical positions and plans in Afghanistan. John has now become a pawn to be used as both Moriarty and Mycroft please. But what everyone forgets is that a pawn has power, too.
1. Opening

**Author's Note: **Recognize this story as well? Well, that might be because it was **also** **_STOLEN_** from me. So now I have been forced to post it here in order to keep anyone else from taking claim to the work that they DID NOT DO.

* * *

"No!" Sherlock snarled at Mycroft. He was pacing back and forth in their flat, steam practically pouring out of his ears.

Remaining carefully indifferent, Mycroft responded, "We have no other choice, Sherlock. He refuses to negotiate. It's either that or our tactical positions in Afghanistan are leaked to enemy forces."

"There's another option. There's always another option," Sherlock retorted, his jaw setting. "He's just playing a game. That's all this is to him: a game. I'm not letting him make John into a pawn!" He ran his hands through his hair, fluffing it out. "Just give me a minute to think. I'll figure it out." Eyes unfocused, Sherlock continued to pace around the room as he muttered under his breath, "There must be a reason that he chose John. Why John? What's so special about him? He could have had anything in exchange for those plans, and he demanded to have John. There must be a reason. But what?"

Mycroft shook his head and looked at his brother sadly. "We have nothing to hold leverage over him, Sherlock. We have been backed into the corner. Either we play this round by his rules or we lose years of counterintelligence and strategic positioning," he said matter-of-factly.

"And just how hard did you look for leverage?" Sherlock countered, rounding on his brother. In the matter of seconds, Sherlock was right in Mycroft's face. "You didn't, did you? Because this was just too convenient for you, wasn't it? You have a chance to have someone infiltrate his web. Someone you can trust. You just couldn't let this opportunity pass you by."

John, who had remained silent the moment Mycroft entered their flat, quietly said, "Sherlock, it's alright." Both brothers looked over at him in shock. "It's only a month, Sherlock. And as a veteran, I cannot allow such sensitive information to be released. I remember what it was like to serve. We barely made it through Hell and back without our enemies knowing our every position and move."

"They're _using_ you, John. Both of them! They're forcing you to play a part in their game-" Sherlock began to protest.

Forcing a smile to his face, John cut him off, "I know, Sherlock. I know they are. But sometimes one just has to take the fall." He rose to his feet and squared his shoulders. Sherlock recoiled slightly as he saw this, and John knew that he had just successfully conveyed that his mind was made up. "Tell Moriarty he has a deal."

Mycroft visibly relaxed as he heard this. "Very well," he responded. "We'll need to make the exchange as soon as possible."

"Of course," John responded with a confirming nod. Without another word, John turned and headed up the stairs. He pulled out his rucksack – the same one he had used throughout his time in Afghanistan. Pressing his lips together, John began sifting through his meagre belongings; he would only bring what he had to with him. After all, it was only a month. He would be back in 221B before he knew it. So he packed away his favourite jumpers and several pairs of jeans and pants. He filled whatever space was left with a couple V-neck T-shirts and toiletries. Pausing a moment, John opened the drawer to his nightstand and pulled out his dog tags. He dropped them into his rucksack and zipped and snapped everything up. After glancing around the room once more, John slung his rucksack over his right shoulder and headed down.

"If anything happens to him, I will _ruin_ you, Mycroft. And you know I am perfectly capable of it," Sherlock growled ominously, his voice dangerously low. John could not help but smile as he heard the threat. Sherlock did, despite himself, care about him.

Mycroft responded, "We'll keep him under surveillance as much as possible."

"Do you think Moriarty's stupid enough to let you keep surveillance on John?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "They'll both drop off the radar the moment the exchange is made. Neither of us will know where John is or what is happening to him or what he's doing for the entire month. It's part of his game!"

"Then don't let him win," Mycroft retorted.

With that, John took his cue to walk into the living room. "I'm ready," he stated. Neither brother looked at him. Instead, they were glaring at each other. Without a word, Mycroft turned on his heels and headed out the door. Turning, John went to follow when a hand grabbed his arm. He looked back to find Sherlock observing him carefully. "Be careful, John," he said softly. "He'll play with your mind. Try to make you question everything you know. You can't let him get to you, do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," John stated, gently pulling away from Sherlock. He could see the sadness in Sherlock's eyes, and he offered a smile in hopes that it would help. "Don't worry about me too much, Sherlock. Try to remember to eat and sleep, would you? I'm sure Mrs Hudson and Mycroft will keep tabs on you, but you need to take care of yourself, too. Try not to drive Lestrade insane or turn the whole Yard against you while I'm gone either."

Sherlock gave a curt nod. That was it. They refused to bid each other goodbye because they would see each other again – in a month latest. With a final smile, John turned away from Sherlock and followed Mycroft down the stairs. They headed out onto the street, a car waiting for them just outside. Opening the door, Mycroft motioned with his umbrella for John to get in. John obliged, taking off his rucksack and sliding in. He kept it in between his legs. Sliding in next to him, Mycroft closed the door. The car started down the street, and a long moment of silence passed between the two men.

"I'm so very sorry-" Mycroft started to say.

"I don't want to hear it," John snapped, cutting him off. He was definitely not pleased by the fact that he had been dragged into the middle of this game, and he was sure that Sherlock was right. Mycroft probably hadn't lifted a finger to see if he could stop the blackmail. "I'm not an idiot. I know that this is just a strategic position. You're just trying to get information about Moriarty's web. And that's fine. I'm alright with it. Really, I am. But don't offend me by implying that I'm an idiot, because whatever you're about to say is an utter lie. So get to my orders or sod off."

Mycroft frowned as he heard this. "If you would allow me to finish," he replied, giving John a pointed look. "I'm so very sorry that you had to be dragged into the middle of this. If there had been any way to keep you with my brother and gain this intelligence, we would not be in this situation." John looked over and saw the sincerity in Mycroft's eyes. "I've enjoyed these last couple of months, after all. Not having to constantly look after him has been a blessing."

"Yes, yes," John responded, unfazed. Apparently, he had not been invaluable enough. "My instructions, though. I'm going into this entire situation blind."

Nodding, Mycroft replied, "Think of this as a mission with a definite deadline. I know you have a good memory, Dr Watson, and you're going to have to use it for this. This is a very sensitive case, after all, and Moriarty is an unpredictable character. You'll never be able to tell what will send him over the edge and what will make him giddy beyond belief. So there can be no physical record of anything. You're going to have to remember anything and everything that could be of significance."

"Noted," John confirmed.

"Try to familiarise yourself with his schedule. I'm sure it will seem arbitrary at first, but I am hoping you can pick out a pattern. Keep tabs on his calls and texts as well, but don't do anything foolhardy. I can't have you caught going through his phone," Mycroft requested.

"Understood," John stated as the car pulled to a stop.

Hesitating, Mycroft said, "Most of all, try to make it out of this alive. If you are ever in doubt about whether you should do something or not, err on the side of caution. And I'm not expecting for you to remember everything with pristine accuracy. As long as you bring us back some intelligence, we will have considered this a success."

"Right," John acknowledged.

Without another word, Mycroft slipped out of the vehicle. Slinging his rucksack over his right shoulder again, John followed and found that he was next to a series of abandoned warehouses. Jim Moriarty stood in front of them with a matching nondescript black vehicle behind him. "Johnny-boy!" Moriarty called out gleefully, his eyes glistening with excitement. "I didn't expect for you to actually accept! Well, not so quickly, at least. I'm honoured. Really."

"The files," Mycroft cut in, not allowing John to speak.

Rolling his eyes, Moriarty pulled out a thumb drive. "Oh, don't be so boring, Mr Holmes," he chided, his eyes never leaving John. He snapped his fingers, and a red laser locked itself onto John's chest, just above his heart. Blood racing, John glared up at Moriarty. "It had to be done, John. I had to let Mr Holmes know he had something to lose if he let his sniper fire at me after the exchange. And I couldn't very well aim at the Ice Man himself. His sniper would have panicked and shot." Finally looking at Mycroft, Moriarty grinned. "Really, you should invest in some better trained snipers. I could give you a few recommendations if you're interested."

"The files, Mr Moriarty," Mycroft repeated coldly.

Moriarty let out a dramatic sigh. "Yes, yes," he said, striding over. He held the thumb drive out for Mycroft to take. As soon as it left his hand, Moriarty turned and roughly grabbed John by the arm. "I'll call you in a month, Mr Holmes, to tell you where to pick up Johnny-boy here," Moriarty called back in a sing-song voice as they headed towards the other car.

John never once looked back at Mycroft. He wasn't entirely sure what he would see – if Mycroft was watching him leave or was already on the phone, informing his bosses that he managed to get the plans back – and he wasn't sure he wanted to know at all. So he kept his eyes fixed ahead as Moriarty pulled him towards the vehicle. Moriarty ripped open the door and shoved John roughly inside. John hardly had a moment to situate himself before Moriarty was sitting right next to him. As soon as the door shut, the car tore out of the parking lot.

"Boring," Moriarty sighed out, flopping back dramatically on his chair. "How boring! You gave up much too willingly. I thought I would at least have to fight for you. Just a bit." Turning, Moriarty faced John and inquired, "It was the contents, wasn't it? Military plans and whatnot? I knew that would be the deciding factor… that the soldier in you would prevail."

"I'm not following orders, if that's what you're implying," John said defensively.

Grinning, Moriarty exclaimed, "Finally, he speaks!" John wondered if he had made a mistake by doing so. "And I know you weren't. Sherlock probably threw a temper-tantrum, didn't he? Oh, I would have loved to see that. But you being a _willing_ participant is what makes this all the more interesting, Johnny-boy."

Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt. John looked out to see they were in an alley with another car facing them. "What-?" he started to ask, his hand tightening on his rucksack.

"Leave it," Moriarty stated, his hand fastening on the rucksack as well. "You'll get everything back as soon as my people make sure that there are no bugs or wires on you. You'll need to change into a new outfit as well."

John knew better than to object. Instead, he opened the door and got out, grudgingly leaving his rucksack behind. He headed over to the next car, a London taxi, and opened the door. A new pair of jeans and a light blue jumper were waiting for him inside. Honestly, John didn't want to know how Moriarty knew his trouser size. John changed in the backseat. The jumper was a bit snug on him, but it was almost in a flattering way Quickly, he made sure to fold his clothes nicely, as if it would matter. As soon as he was done, Moriarty opened the other door and yanked the clothes out, shoving them into a bag and tossing them to a subordinate, who caught it effortlessly. He then turned back and slipped into the taxi next to John.

"Drive," Moriarty ordered the driver before glancing over at John. "That colour looks better on you than I thought it would. And the jumper's a huge improvement. You really should try to wear more formfitting clothes, Johnny-boy. Maybe you would actually be able to keep a woman then."

John refused to react to the jab. Moriarty might have been able to make Mycroft and Sherlock dance, but John wasn't like them; he was a soldier – an army veteran. Without a doubt, there was _nothing_ Moriarty could do to force him to do something he didn't want. "Where are we going?" he asked, deciding to change the subject.

Moriarty sighed melodramatically, rolling his head around to look outside. "Dull. I don't see why Sherlock keeps you around at this rate. Why not ask me something vaguely interesting?" he complained.

"Because I'm not interested in entertaining you," John responded matter-of-factly.

Laughing, Moriarty whirled around to face John. "Oh! Oh, good. Yes, that's very good. You're a fighter," he exclaimed, grinning at him maniacally. "Very well. We'll make an exchange. I'll answer one of your questions if you'll answer one of mine. Honestly. I'll know if you're lying, Johnny-boy!" He sang out the last sentence gleefully.

"Deal. Where are we going?" John replied.

Moriarty frowned, clearly displeased by the question. "To your new residence. It's better if you don't know anything else about it," he answered. "How did Sherlock react to our little deal?"

"He wasn't happy about it. Almost refused to let me go because he didn't want to play your game," John responded, knowing lying would just get him on Moriarty's bad side. Moriarty grinned as he heard this. "He was also slightly mystified, so congratulations there."

Although John said the last part sarcastically, Moriarty didn't seem to notice. "Oh?" he pressed, his eyes shining. "How so? And be specific."

"He couldn't figure out why you would take me," John confessed after a long moment of silent debate. "You could have had any amount of money in exchange for that information. Hell, you could have gotten an all-expenses-paid vacation to anywhere in the world."

"So Sherlock's jealous that Daddy's got a new favourite toy?" Moriarty pressed, his voice laced with excitement. He grinned maniacally at the thought and leaned back into his chair. After another moment's pause, he continued, "Oh, this is a lot more fun. I knew he would object to the arrangement. I knew he wouldn't want to play by my rules. But he had no other option, and he couldn't come up with an escape fast enough. That must just eat him up inside." It looked to John that Moriarty was enjoying this far too much. Suddenly, Moriarty added, "Well, if you really want to know, I took you because I want to see how Sherlock gets on without you there to stroke his ego and tell him that he's pretty."

"I don't tell him that he's pretty," John snapped back.

Moriarty smirked. "You might as well. It's pathetic, really, just how hard he tries to impress you. I want to see how motivated he is when there's not even the faintest chance of him receiving your praise. I wonder just how far down he'll spiral." He murmured the last sentence as if he was just talking to himself.

"You give me too much credit. Sherlock doesn't need me to function. He's lived on his own before, and I'm sure he'll do just fine living on his own again," John bit back, shifting uncomfortably.

Clearly amused, Moriarty pressed, "And that bothers you all the more, doesn't it?" John set his jaw and glared at Moriarty, who laughed at the response. "It just burns you, doesn't it? To need someone so badly in your life but to not be needed in return. Sherlock might not have many people close to him, but he has enough. Mycroft and Mrs Hudson will keep him alive. Lestrade and I will keep him busy with cases and puzzles. And you – you'll just be gone. Useless. Unnecessary."

"Enough!" John barked, finally allowing Moriarty to get a rise out of him.

Moriarty burst out laughing, clearly pleased with John's reaction. "My turn," he sang out, and John was already beginning to hate that voice. "How long can you go without any human contact?" Looking at him in confusion, John cocked an eyebrow. "It's for future reference."

"I should be fine for a week," John answered, knowing from experience. "So I take it that you will be checking in every now and again to make sure I'm still alive?"

After a moment's pause, Moriarty replied, "It's a game, Johnny-boy, and I'm always three steps ahead. My move was to take you away from Sherlock. It's only obvious that the Ice Man's next move would be an attempt to gain something. The easiest course of action would be to use you. To see if he can infiltrate my network by having you gather information." The way Moriarty moved his head was reptilian-like in its manner. "So I'm not going to give you the opportunity. You will be brought food every three days. I've set you up with a nice television, but you'll have no access to the internet. Can't risk you making contact with the Holmes brothers, after all. And I'll swan in every now and again to give you the human contact you so desperately need to keep you from going mental."

"How generous of you," John muttered, knowing that it was, in fact, extremely generous of Moriarty to even pop in to see him once and not just let him rot there. "So how often can I expect you?"

Shrugging, Moriarty replied, "Depends on my workload. At least once a week."

"You should shoot me a text beforehand. You know, so I can get the place looking nice before you come over," John said sarcastically.

Moriarty responded, "I suppose I should warn you that you won't be getting your phone back until you're released. I'll give you a replacement phone that will only call my number. It's only in case of emergencies – and by that, I mean if you're dying. Wouldn't want to miss that, after all."

"You might want to actually keep me alive, you know. Sherlock will come after you if you don't," John threatened, not sure that would give him the desired effect.

It didn't. Grinning maniacally, Moriarty responded, "I know. Sounds much more interesting than just letting you walk away."

The taxi stopped in front of a building, and John mentally kicked himself in the arse. He should have been paying attention to where they were and the route to get to his new home, not playing 20 questions with Moriarty. Eyes widening, John realised that _that_ had probably been Moriarty's plan all along: distract John so he wouldn't pay attention to where they were going. Slipping out of the vehicle, Moriarty waited outside and tapped his foot impatiently. John stepped out and followed Moriarty. Showing an ID at the door, Moriarty waited to be buzzed in. At least John knew he would be well taken care of. A doorman quickly opened the door for them, stepping aside and greeting Moriarty with a courteous bow. Unsure of his surroundings, John stepped closer to Moriarty as they headed for the lift. Neither of them said a word as the lift doors binged open, they stepped into the lift, Moriarty hit the number 5 button, the lift doors closed, and the lift began to move.

"Fifth floor?" John noted, looking over at Moriarty.

A smile tugged at Moriarty's lips as he heard this. "How astute of you. I see that Sherlock's skills of deduction are clearly rubbing off on you. You will be living on the fifth floor of a building in London," he replied condescendingly. When lift doors opened again, Moriarty stepped out, leading the way. "We'll have some general house rules to go over, and then I'll let yourself get acquainted with your new home."

Following him down the hall, John scanned the hallway. There were no cameras that he could see. They stopped outside of flat number 513, and Moriarty unlocked the door before slowly letting it fall open. It was a bit theatrical, but John was, despite himself, astounded when he looked inside. Wooden floors stretched out with a living room directly to the left of the main room and a kitchen to the right. A three-person sofa sat across from a large, flat-screen television mounted on the wall. Sitting in between, a wooden table that matched the wood of the floors sat on top of a Turkish rug. In the kitchen was a large island. Maple cabinets ran along the top of the wall. Underneath the hunter green granite countertop was a stove, microwave, refrigerator, and dishwasher. Two doors were in the back, and John assumed that one of them would lead to the bedroom. In between them was a large closet, which most likely contain a washer and dryer.

"Better than I expected," John confessed, stepping into the place.

Moriarty scoffed as he heard this. "Of course it is. Unlike Sherlock, I can afford it," he stated. "It's one of my many flats."

"Just how many do you own?" John pressed, thoroughly surprised.

Laughing, Moriarty replied, "That was a nice try, Johnny-boy. I own enough flats to get by. Can't stay in one place too long, after all. Never know when someone might finally catch up."

"So this is one of the humble abodes of Mr Moriarty," John said, looking around.

"Humble. Right," Moriarty echoed, scoffing. Looking around, Moriarty slunk to the side. "So house rules," he commented. John looked back at him, signalling he was paying attention. "First of all, you'll call me James when I'm here. 'Mr Moriarty' is a mouthful to begin with, and I like to relax when I'm home and not think about the day's proceedings. Hard to do that when you're calling me by my professional name. Second of all, you will not be leaving this flat under any circumstances. The front door is rigged with a special security alarm that will alert me immediately every time it opens. If you leave this flat, I will hunt you down and put a bullet in your head. Third of all, there is only one bedroom, and I refuse to kip on the sofa in my own house. So on the nights I decide to grace you with my presence for the entire evening, I will be sleeping in the bed. And you'll be sleeping in the bed with me. Am I understood?"

"What?" John asked, unable to process the information at all once. "You want me to sleep in the same bed as you when you're here?"

"Is that a problem?" Moriarty pressed, his eyes darkening.

Laughing out of shock, John replied, "Yes. That's a huge problem. I'm not about to kip in the same bed with my best friend's archenemy. It's not happening. I'll kip on the sofa when you're here."

"And risk you sneaking in to kill me in my sleep or try to escape whilst I'm unawares?" Moriarty retorted, frowning. There was a gleam in his eyes that John recognised. "You'll sleep in the same bed as me when I stay the nights. This isn't up for negotiation, John. Don't make me force you."

John actually felt a spike of fear shoot through him. He remembered the night at the pool vividly, and he didn't even want to think about what Moriarty could do to him in this state. Clenching his jaw, John stood up straight and looked Moriarty directly in the eyes. He refused to show any fear, knowing it would just make Moriarty feel stronger. "Fine," John responded in his military voice.

Moriarty relaxed a bit as he heard those words. "Good." Pulling a mobile phone out of his pocket, Moriarty set it on the island. "Here's your new mobile. It connects directly to mine. Use it only in cases of emergency. I don't want you to call me for chit-chats in the middle of meetings. In return, I promise you that I will answer every time you call." John looked down at the mobile to find it was the same make and model as his own. "So you don't struggle using it," Moriarty stated, as if he was reading John's mind. "Keep this on or near you at all times. Should I call, you need to answer the phone. Should I text you, you need to respond as soon as possible. Texts will not be as urgent as calls. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Of course I can," John said, picking the phone up and slipping it into his pocket.

Smiling, Moriarty turned on his heels. "I'll leave you to it then, Johnny-boy. Enjoy getting to know your new home," he called back before slipping out the front door.

John heard it lock and glanced down to find no way to unlock it from the inside. It reminded him of a kennel, and he felt trapped. Glancing around, John headed to see what remained behind the final two doors. The door on the right opened to a bathroom. There was nothing special about it, just a shower, toilet, and sink. Backing out, John opened the other door and looked in. It was a massive master bedroom with an entire wall of windows, the only source of natural light in the entire flat. Sitting on the edge of the bed, John felt the mattress sink underneath his body. It was a nice place, all things considered. John could definitely see himself making it through the month in this place. With a sigh, he collapsed back onto the bed and closed his eyes. Only 31 days left…


	2. White Pawn to E4, Black Pawn to E5

Three days had passed since Moriarty had taken John to the flat. While he was sleeping the first night, someone brought back his rucksack, and John noticed that only his mobile phone was missing. The third morning, he woke up to find that the flat had been cleaned except for his bedroom. When he fell asleep the third night, someone replenished his refrigerator. It mystified John how they knew when he was asleep and were capable of not waking him up when they were inside. It also bothered him. As a veteran, John had always been, to an extent, a light sleeper. Yes, he could sleep through bombings if need be, but generally he woke up to even the smallest sound. Whoever was coming in at night always managed to leave him undisturbed.

At least John acclimated himself to living alone again rather quickly. He always had the telly or radio on. Silence for extended periods of time irked him because it reminded him that he was truly alone again and would be for another three or so weeks. If the noise wasn't enough, he would yell at the telly or radio. It wasn't that he thought it could answer back, but it was nice to verbally complain about something petty once in awhile. Another thing John was getting used to was cooking again. When living with Sherlock, John was never sure if he would have time to cook, never knowing when the Yard would need their help and call. With nothing better to do with his day, John was forcing himself to remember the cooking class he took in Uni for credits. He also watched the cooking channel more, hoping they would make something that John actually had the ingredients for.

Tonight, John was having chicken stir fry for dinner. It was easy enough for John to make, and they had been running a chicken cooking marathon on the telly all day. The radio was on, playing in the background as his skillet sizzled and popped. Humming to himself, John stirred the contents of his skillet in order to ensure that nothing would burn. Just as he was about to check the white rice, John heard the front door open. Shocked, he spun around to find Moriarty waltzing into the flat.

"Hey there, Johnny-boy," Moriarty called out in a chipper voice as the door swung shut behind him.

Rigid, John froze where he was. "Mr Mori-" he began to greet.

"Tsk, tsk, Johnny," Moriarty cut him off. "I thought I gave you clear instructions."

Pausing a moment, John thought back to the first day he came. "James," he corrected himself after a moment.

"Very good, Johnny," Moriarty praised, heading over to see what John was cooking. "Chicken stir fry with white rice? Enough for two, even. Were you really expecting me?"

John rolled his eyes and turned back to his food. "No. I was expecting to get to eat this both tonight and tomorrow for lunch."

"Well," Moriarty started, opening up the cabinet for plates, "it appears you're going to have to plan something else for tomorrow. I'll be eating with you tonight."

Sighing, John was not feeling up to having a row about dinner. Instead, he pressed, "Might I ask why?"

"You might," Moriarty answered whimsically as he set the plates down on the table. "You might not. In the end, you're the only one who really knows."

John rolled his eyes. How could have forgotten what it was like to be with this man? "Very well. Why are you eating with me tonight?" he inquired before he turned off the stove.

"Living with Sherlock has made you lazy," Moriarty suddenly pointed out. It caught John slightly off guard to be called out in such a bold manner. "Think about it for just a moment, and I'm sure you'll be able to figure out everything on your own. Not just anyone can be a captain and a doctor, after all. You have to have some wits about you."

John scowled and remained silent for a moment as he walked over to the table with the pot of rice. As he filled his plate, John took the time to actually think everything through. Moriarty had told him that he would see John probably about once a week since John told him that was more or less how long he could last without human contact. But it was only three days since then, and here he was. There would be no reason to come back. After all, John had not broken any of the house rules and had not made contact with Moriarty since he first arrived. That is unless… Suddenly, John felt realisation wash over him. "You've bugged the house," he accused sharply, turning on his heels to face Moriarty.

"Very good," Moriarty praised mockingly as he pulled out two forks and two knives. "Although I know you've had a psychiatrist, I somehow doubt that you two had an extensive chat about how talking to the radio or television is not necessarily typical."

Biting his tongue, John walked around the other side of the table and sloppily dropped the rest of the rice on Moriarty's plate. He headed back into the kitchen and quickly glanced around the room. Surveillance hardly bothered him; it was more of the fact that he had not known about it until now. Quickly, he searched once more as he reached down to grab the skillet. His eyes locked onto the radio and scanned it only to find nothing. Clicking his tongue in dissatisfaction, John turned back around and headed back over to the table. He would search the flat later. For now, he had bigger fish to fry. He split the stir fry almost perfectly in half, dropping his side onto his plate before doing the same with Moriarty's. "Enjoy," he stated indifferently as he set the skillet back onto the island. Sitting down across from Moriarty, John could not help but feel like something wasn't quite right. It was probably the atmosphere. James Moriarty did not fit in a domestic setting, but here he was: sitting at a table with a home cooked meal right in front of him. No five star restaurant with a candle and a soft-spoken server. No banquet which only the elite attended. Just a flat with John Watson. Glancing up, Moriarty locked eyes with John, who pressed his lips together and quickly glanced down at his food.

"I know what you're thinking," Moriarty said quietly, all teasing now out of his voice. It shocked John so much that he looked up at Moriarty once more. "Yes, I have expensive taste. With my line of work, I can afford to live a little. Especially since I do not believe I will be making it into my twilight years. However, that hardly means I cannot appreciate the smaller things in life." In a split second, Moriarty's expression changed from sombre to entertained. "This could have used a bit more of a kick. I suggest using more onions."

Frowning, John retorted, "It's difficult to cook whatever I feel like when I have no control over what food is bought and brought to me." With that, he stabbed a piece of chicken and ate it. It was not bad – not fantastic either – and definitely far from a 5-star restaurant meal. He paused a moment in chewing before realising what it needed. "Salt," he said aloud as a mental note.

As John got up, Moriarty responded, "That's hardly my fault, Johnny. You should take initiative for once and make a list."

"I'll do that," John responded, grabbing the salt. "And why do you insist on calling me Johnny when you know my name is John?"

Moriarty grinned. "I enjoy getting under your skin," he responded matter-of-factly. "I like watching you squirm and hesitate and glance about in an attempt to figure something out. It's very entertaining. Honestly, I am starting to see why Sherlock keeps you around."

"I'm not a pet," John bit back. He sat back down in his chair and began sprinkling salt all over his food.

Chuckling, Moriarty smirked up at John. "Maybe not a kept pet, although Sherlock should really take better care of his things-"

"I'm not _his_," John snapped angrily. He was tired of the constant prodding about his relationship with Sherlock. How could people not understand that they were strictly platonic? That they were wired in a way that they would never be able to be together in a romantic sense? It was irritating, to say the least, and John was not going to put up with Moriarty's snide comments either.

Taking a bite of food, Moriarty grinned up at John, who seethed in anger. He was being toyed with. Moriarty said it before, after all, that he just enjoyed getting under John's skin. John was making it too easy for him. "He calls, and you come running, Johnny-boy," Moriarty pointed out after swallowing his bite. "You're there to keep him entertained. To make sure he doesn't get too lonely up in that flat. How could you see yourself as anything other than a pet?" John bit his tongue, not willing to give Moriarty another victory. At seeing this, Moriarty burst into laughter. "Oh, that's good. Are you going to punish me with the silent treatment? Try to make it impossible for me to rile you up again simply by not opening your mouth? It's adorable, really, just how simple your mind is."

John merely gave him a sarcastically cheerful smile and continued eating as if Moriarty was not even in the room. Neither of them said anything for the rest of the meal. Despite the fact that John was pretending Moriarty was not there, he could not help but feel that it was nice to have another human being in the flat. Just to have someone there made him no longer feel alone. So John waited until Moriarty was done eating before he grabbed both plates and headed into the kitchen to wash them. Despite the fact that he had a fully functioning dishwasher, John also had nothing better to do with his time than to wash the dishes by hand. Besides, he hardly used any dishes himself, so he figured they would start smelling bad before the dishwasher was even close to full. Moriarty said nothing in response, and John quickly filled the sink full of soapy water. Turning around, John grabbed the pot and skillet and dropped them into the sink along with the plates and utensils. Just as John started washing the dishes, a movement to his right caught his attention. He looked over to see Moriarty, jacketless, rolling up his sleeves.

"What are you-?" John started to ask.

Moriarty cut him off, "Don't ask stupid questions. It's unbecoming of a man who is supposed to be intelligent. You know what I'm doing." With that, Moriarty grabbed a hand towel and looked over at John expectantly. "Are you going to wash those dishes or keep staring at me, Johnny-boy? I know I'm attractive – and I must admit that I'm flattered – but I don't have all night."

Setting his jaw, John turned back to the plate in his hand. This was the second time he had ever seen Moriarty do anything even remotely human. The first had been just before John was shipped out into the pool, he was being tormented by Moriarty's hired guns. When Moriarty came in to find them taunting and knocking John around, he rebuked each and every one of them before threatening to end their "miserable existences" if they laid another hand on John. It had been a startling display of power… and a remarkable display of humanity. By the end of the night, John had dismissed it as a fluke. John needed to be in one piece for Moriarty's plan to work. But now, John's foundation for Moriarty being a monster was being shaken again, and he did not like it. It was more disturbing to think that Moriarty was a man – a human being – doing all these things than something that wasn't quite human.

"Why are you doing this then?" John pressed as he handed Moriarty the plate. "And don't give me some roundabout speech about how I could work everything out myself. I've tried that already. Didn't work."

Smirking, Moriarty dried the plate slowly. "Despite what you might think, Johnny, I'm not inconsiderate. You cooked dinner, so I set the table. Dinner was actually decent – better than what I was expecting for a bachelor to be able to cook – so I am helping clean the dishes. Hardly rocket science once you think about it," he answered before opening a cabinet and putting the plate away.

"I apologize that 'considerate man' did not exactly cross my mind as an aspect of your personality," John responded sarcastically, handing James the second plate. "For some reason, that adjective somehow managed to get buried behind conspirator, immoral, clever, murderer, heartless, bomber, insensitive, brilliant, malevolent, and anything else that could possibly apply to the fact that you're a _consulting criminal_, and you plan assassinations, murders, bank robberies, and who knows what else."

Moriarty looked over at John and jokingly cooed, "You think I'm clever and brilliant?"

"Is that really all you got from that list?" John pressed, not in the mood for jesting. "My point is that you're not the type of man who is pictured standing next to a soapy sink, drying the dishes."

Raising an eyebrow, Moriarty solemnly asked, "And what exactly do you know about me?" He set the next plate up into a cabinet before continuing, "Do tell. You act as if you're just as insightful as Sherlock Holmes. You've had more interaction with me than Sherlock could even dream of. So tell me, John, what have you learned about me in the time we have spent together."

John was startled by the sudden use of his proper first name – not "Johnny" or "Johnny-boy" – and he immediately went on guard. "What do I know about you?" John repeated the question, stalling for time. He continued scrubbing the pot as he collected his thoughts. "I know you're a consulting criminal, and you design crimes for a living. I know that you're like Sherlock, and you get bored. You're probably constantly searching for stimulation to keep you on your toes, which is why you're constantly working. You proved that to Sherlock when you had him running around London, trying to solve your puzzles. You wanted to show him that you were busy. You wanted to prove just how vast your reach was, and you wanted to show him that even he would not be able to take down your entire network." Handing the pot over to Moriarty, John was surprised to see that Moriarty looked fascinated by what John was saying. "How am I doing so far?" he asked indifferently, turning to scrub the skillet.

"Better than I expected," Moriarty grudgingly admitted.

John smirked at that. It always felt nice to be able to take someone like Moriarty by surprise, especially since people always had a tendency to underestimate John. "So you decided to become a consulting criminal of all things. Because of Carl Powers, am I right? Teased you as a boy, I'm guessing. Called you nasty nicknames and bullied you. Going by your current physical build, I would guess that you were small for your age. Easy to push around. What Carl Powers didn't know is that you bite back. And when you realised you were smart enough and charismatic enough to bite back, you travelled down a road you could never return from." With that, John handed Moriarty the skillet.

"You're clever, Johnny-boy. Cleverer than I anticipated. Why do you suppress that while around Sherlock?" Moriarty pressed, actually sounding interested.

Shrugging, John reached down and found a knife to wash. "It's not suppression. Not really. I just don't have to use that particular skillset around Sherlock. What takes him seconds to see takes me hours. It's just easier to let him take the reins on whatever case than to apply hours upon hours of brainpower only for Sherlock to solve it before me anyway. It would leave me exhausted."

Moriarty had already finished drying the skillet and put it away by the time John was done speaking. Dropping the towel onto the countertop, Moriarty walked up behind John and pressed into him entirely, making John take a step forward in an attempt to distance himself. All he succeeded in doing was smashing himself between the sink and James Moriarty. Instantly, his heart began to race as adrenaline shot through his system. "This is very much a hang-up, Johnny. I wasn't expecting for you to be more interesting than you already are. But here you are, turning me on with your cunning that had, until this point, remained hidden." With that, Moriarty gave a grind into John, who gasped as he felt a hard erection press into him.

"I'm not-" John started to object.

"Gay, I know," Moriarty cut in, his breath hot on John's neck. "It's a nifty little defence you got there. You're technically telling the truth, so you don't feel bad for saying it. I mean, it's not your fault people assume that you saying you're not gay means you're not interested in men. They're all stupid in any case. I know better." John controlled his breathing as he heard this, not wanting to give anything away. "You're bisexual. With a tendency to lean towards the male side, believe it or not. You try to counteract that by sleeping with a bunch of women, probably because you wanted to please your parents… but more likely because you knew that you would be bullied worse than your sister if you came out. Despite your attempts at integrating yourself into what you believed to be a heterosexual lifestyle, it's never quite worked out, has it?" Moriarty leaned down, his lips just barely brushing the skin on John's neck. John's breath caught in his throat as he heard this. How on Earth Moriarty managed to correctly observe everything baffled him. "I know you've always pictured yourself as dominant in such a situation, but let me assure you that a submissive role would be more becoming of your personality. After all, you are one big contradiction."

John bit back a groan as images flashed in his mind of being dominated by James Moriarty, and he felt himself stir down there ever so slightly. It was horrifying to know that it only took a few sentences for Moriarty to get him going. Part of him wondered if Moriarty took him hostage just to have his fun sexually harassing John while the other part of him objected, saying Moriarty was probably just trying to get under his skin again. As soon as he processed this, he immediately forced the images to the back of his mind and quickly collected his thoughts. He was not about to let Moriarty get the better of him. Eye flashing open, he quickly steeled his nerves. "You know, I've castrated a man with less," he threatened idly, holding up the knife. A chuckle rumbled through Moriarty's chest, vibrating against John's back. However, Moriarty did pull back and away, letting John breathe deeply again. John relaxed slightly as he felt this. "And what part of 'archenemy of my best friend' makes you think I will ever be with you?"

"The _dangerous_ part of it all," Moriarty replied, much to John's surprise. He looked over to find Moriarty looming over him. "You live off danger, Johnny-boy. Thrive on it. I'm the most dangerous man you will ever meet. Being with me would be the ultimate turn on for you. Think about it: the world's only consulting criminal and your best friend's archenemy dominating you in bed. It has a nice ring to it, does it not? Besides, I know you're more interested in sleeping with me than you have ever been interested in sleeping with Sherlock."

"That's outrageous," John snarled defensively. He would deny being attracted to Moriarty a million times if he had to. "You think far too highly of yourself. And let me remind you: castration with less."

Moriarty barked out a laugh as he heard this. "Despite what you might think, Johnny-boy, I have yet to forcibly take someone. Every single one of my lovers has willingly gone to bed with me. You'll be the same," he sang out, nicking the knife out of John's hand. Carefully drying it, Moriarty continued, "Although, really, you should get this internal conflict out of the way as soon as possible. I'll make your body sing once you hand it over to me. And then you'll kick yourself in the arse for not giving yourself to me sooner."

"Still not interested," John growled, eyes remaining locked on the fork he was now scrubbing. "And I would be grateful if you would drop the subject. You're starting to sound desperate."

Chuckling, Moriarty softly replied, "I could say the same about you, Johnny-boy." John handed him the fork before grabbing the other one to wash. "Very well then. I'll drop it. But only because it's already in your head – the images of you and me – and they won't be leaving anytime soon." As Moriarty sang this out, John set his jaw to keep himself from rewarding Moriarty with a reaction. "Believe it or not, Johnny, but I'm a patient man. I'm willing to wait however long it takes. But now you'll never be able to look at me the same way, will you? It'll be fun to watch your inner struggle between your desires and your morals. I'll enjoy watching you scramble around in an attempt to keep your morals above everything else. And I'll love it even more when that all comes crashing down and you finally submit yourself to me."

"It's _never_ going to happen," John snapped back, thrusting the fork into Moriarty's hands. He then plunged his hand into the sink and grabbed the remaining knife. "You underestimate my integrity and strength. I'm never going to just submit myself to you, do you hear me? Never."

"We'll see," Moriarty sang out as he took the final knife and dried it off. He then dropped all the utensils into their drawer before drying his hands and heading towards the sofa, where he left his jacket.

Confused, John pressed, "Where are you going?"

"Back to work, Johnny," Moriarty informed him as he lowered his sleeves. Looking up, he pressed, "Surely, you didn't think I would be staying here any longer. I might have, had you actually given into me. But seeing as how that's not going to happen tonight, I might as well get back to work. After all, crimes don't plan themselves, you know. And I have a tendency of having the most peculiar, paranoid clients for some reason." Pausing a moment, Moriarty looked back at John. "Can't even fathom why," he added sarcastically. With that, Moriarty laughed again as he slid on his jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your evening. I'll be back to check on you whenever I feel up to it."

With that, Moriarty slipped out the front door. John let out a relieved sigh before shivering slightly. The warmth from Moriarty being pressed against him was finally beginning to fade, and John was left feeling colder than usual. But he was free of Moriarty, even if it was only temporary. Everything he had said was still swimming in John's mind, but what bothered him the most was the inevitable truth of it all. There _was_ an attraction there – one that would never be able to last – that John had felt from the very first adrenaline rush he experienced just from seeing Moriarty that night at the pool. Moriarty himself was the epitome of danger: world's only consulting criminal, constantly waist-deep in carnage. He was also clever, brilliant, taboo, and mysterious. John wanted to sit back and peel off the different layers of Moriarty until he got down to the very core – the human part of Moriarty that had to exist. To what end, though? Once a month was over, John would be leaving this flat and Moriarty for good. He would return to his life with Sherlock, and they would continue as always. So it seemed stupid to get involved at all. Because in the end, John would get attached as he always did. And then what would become of his life?

Shaking his head, John made his decision. James Moriarty and John Watson would never happen. Only 27 days left…


	3. White Pawn to F4, Black Pawn to F4

After dealing with Moriarty just yesterday, John had been enjoying his rather peaceful, uneventful day. He wound up cleaning up the flat a bit, having found the supplies in a closet, before making himself lunch and eating it while watching the news. Then he decided he would take a small nap, seeing as how he really had nothing else to do. So he snagged one of the blankets in his closet, covered himself with it, and dozed off peacefully. He had just been having a dream about being back in 221B when he heard his name being called out in the distance. A first, he thought it was Sherlock – after all, they were working another case again – and it took him a moment to recognise the voice. Groaning, John twisted and stretched, yawning wide as he wiped his eyes.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Moriarty sang out tauntingly. "Don't tell me that you've been asleep all day."

John rolled his eyes before responding, "Of course not. I wanted to take a nap." As he sat up and wiped his eyes again, he asked, "What are you doing back so bloody soon? You just saw me yesterday, after all."

"Today's been a slow day, and I had an hour to spare. I thought I would spend it with you, Johnny-boy. Honestly, you could afford to be a bit more grateful," Moriarty teased. John looked over to see him sitting on the arm of the sofa. "I'm afraid my curiosity has gotten the better of me today. I've been thinking about this since last night, but I must simply ask: what exactly is your relationship with Sherlock? And don't get cute and play pretend. I mean, what does your relationship with him entail?"

Groaning as he heard this, John shook his head. "Even you now think I'm shagging with my flatmate? This is just too bloody fantastic," he replied sarcastically. He glared up at Moriarty and pressed, "Why don't you figure it out for yourself since you claim to be so brilliant. I'm sure you know already what our relationship entails."

"I want to hear the words from your mouth myself," Moriarty countered, his tone threatening.

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's too bad. I'm not in the mood for entertaining you today, so you're just going to have to go off what you already know." With that, he rose from the sofa in order to fetch a glass of water.

As soon as John had his glass, Moriarty pressed, "Why don't we make a game out of it?"

John was hardly in the mood to keep fighting the man, so he just sighed and shook his head. "What sort of game do you have in mind?"

"Since I clearly cannot get the words out of your mouth, I will settle for sheer acknowledgement. You tell me if I'm correct by taking a step towards me and tell me if I'm wrong by taking two steps back. If I guess wrong three times, you win this little game. If you make it over to the sofa, I win."

"And what are the prizes, might I ask?" John pressed guardedly before taking a sip of water.

Moriarty grinned wickedly as he heard this. "If you win, I'll send over someone else to visit you. Don't get too excited about this. It'll probably wind up being one of my employees. In any case, you won't have to worry about me hitting on you ever again."

"And if you win?" John inquired, knowing there had to be a catch. There was always a catch when it came to Moriarty.

Still smirking, Moriarty responded, "If I win, I get to see that lovely little scar you keep hidden under those jumpers."

John froze as he heard this. "How do you-?" he started to ask before things clicked together. "You researched me."

"Surprising what a couple of buddies in the army will spill once you've got a couple of drinks in them," Moriarty stated nonchalantly. "So are you interested or not?"

John took a long drink in order to stall for time. Moriarty did not seem the type to gamble, meaning he felt confident that he would wind up winning this bet between them. Not only that, but the rewards were slated against John. He hated showing anyone his scar as it generally changed their perception of him. John Watson always went from being a strong veteran to being a marred old man. After the first three breakups due to girls treating him differently after seeing it, John wore an undershirt in order to hide it while having sex, which just caused other issues. Even despite all of this, John doubted Moriarty would simply drop the matter if he refused. So he might as well up the stakes. "If I win, I get a visit from Mrs Hudson within the next week. It has to be at least three hours long, and neither you nor your men are allowed to harm her in any way, shape, or form," he countered.

"Deal," Moriarty said much too quickly. John knew immediately that he was done for. Pausing a moment, Moriarty gauged the distance between them. "Going by your stride, it should take you nine – maybe ten – steps to reach me. Oh, and don't try to trick me or lie to me. I'll be able to see right through it, you know. Now let's begin with the basics. You never gave your sexuality much thought until your sister came out."

Frowning, John took a step forward and pointed out, "I thought you wanted to find out the specifics about my relationship with Sherlock."

"In a second," Moriarty sang back with a twisted smile. "Let me have my fun first, Johnny!" Suddenly, his entire expression changed to that of concentration. "I was correct yesterday when I said that you are bisexual with a preference towards the male side." With that, John took another step forward. "Even so, you've never actually been with a man." John blinked in surprise and took another step forward. "You're defensive about your sexuality primarily because of your army years – I'm sure those jokes get old, after all – and now because everyone believes you and Sherlock are together." John grudgingly took yet another step forward. "But you aren't together," Moriarty stated.

John scowled. "I believe you covered that when you pointed out that I've never actually been with a man before," he responded coldly.

"You don't have to be having sex in order to 'be together' with Sherlock Holmes. Hell. To him, taking you out to a crime scene could probably be considered a date. So now I'm saying this again: you are not together with Sherlock Holmes in _any_sense of those words. You're not dating nor are you fuck buddies. You're in a strictly platonic relationship." Sucking in a large breath, John took another step forward. Moriarty smiled at him. "Now, was that so hard?" he inquired rhetorically. Leaning back slightly, Moriarty gauged John for a moment. His eyes suddenly widened, and he started laughing. "Not _that's_ interesting. Very interesting. Of course. Why didn't I see this before?"

Confused, John inquired, "What? See what before?"

"You're fastened on this concept of declaring yourself not gay because you're worried that Sherlock might actually be interested in you in more than just a platonic way," Moriarty finally declared.

John's blood went cold, and he felt this childish need to declare that he didn't want to play this game anymore. However, he knew that he had dug his own grave when he started this entire charade. Swallowing, he took a step forward, and Moriarty brightened instantly. "It's a stupid concern, really. He's married to his work, after all," he pointed out. It was the excuse he always used when he worried about Sherlock's feelings towards him.

"And you're becoming a part of that work, aren't you, Johnny-boy?" Moriarty pressed, making John's heart race in fear. John didn't know what he would do if Sherlock declared his love for him. They were best mates – nothing more and nothing less. John loved him like a brother and would do anything to protect him, but the very thought of having sex with Sherlock made John cringe. "If it makes you feel better," Moriarty said after a long moment, "he's not interested in you romantically at all. You're his… friend… whatever that's supposed to mean." Moriarty seemed legitimately lost when it came to the term "friendship," and part of John took pity on him. After a long pause, Moriarty looked up and quickly took in how far John was from him. "What – three more steps before I win?" he inquired. John's jaw set slightly as he heard this. He had hoped that Moriarty would drop everything once he got out of John what he came here for. Apparently, that was not going to happen. "Despite everything you do for him, you feel underappreciated. Not just by Sherlock, though, but by everyone. No one notices you. Not really. Everything revolves around Sherlock." John frowned at this and went to take a step backwards. "Don't lie, Johnny," Moriarty threatened with a smile on his face. "I know when you're lying."

"What's it to you if I feel appreciated or not?" John pressed, taking a step forward.

Shrugging, Moriarty responded, "I honestly don't care. I just need to get two more deductions right in order to win this game of ours. Now, let me think." He paused a moment before continuing, "Your parents were homophobic and never knew about your interest in men, even as they were on their deathbeds." John took another step forward, knowing this last one would seal his fate. "You're more attracted to me than you would like to verbally admit," Moriarty finished as he stood up. John's heart stopped as he heard this, and he swiftly took two steps back. "Oh, come on, Johnny. Admit it. It's just a step, after all. It's not like you're telling me that you're madly in love with me. You're just saying that you're attracted to me more than you would like to say."

"This game is over," John stated firmly, turning on his heels and heading back into the kitchen. By the time he got another glass of water, Moriarty was nowhere to be found. Only 26 days to go…

The next day, John had just finished making his grocery list when he heard the front door open again. Groaning, he turned around to find Moriarty taking off his jacket and slinging it over the sofa. "Greetings, Johnny-boy," he called out, giving a cheerful wave. "Did you miss me?"

"Like I miss a bullet to the shoulder," John responded haughtily, turning his attention back to his grocery list. "What is it you're here for now? I can't imagine you dropped in because you were feeling generous with your time. You must want something. Am I wrong?" With that, Moriarty took a step towards John and grinned broadly. John scowled in response, having caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. "What do you want?"

"Not even a hint of a smile, Johnny? I thought I would get some sort of reaction out of you with that one," Moriarty stated with a smile.

"What do you want?" John reiterated as he scratched through a misspelling of a word.

Moriarty walked over to the island and leaned against it, standing just a meter away from John. "I have another question for you about an unusual choice of words two days ago. You said that I 'was the archenemy of your best friend.' Now, this is very true, but I am curious as to why you declared that instead of telling me that I was _your_ archenemy." After a pause, Moriarty pressed, "Or am I something different?"

"You're nothing more than my best friend's archenemy," John responded matter-of-factly. "Why would you be anything in regards to me? As you said before, everything revolves around Sherlock. The only interactions I've ever had with you are only due to the fact that you want to goad a reaction out of him. Think about it – the kidnapping, the pool, and now this. Everything done in order to get under Sherlock's skin. Hell, if I didn't know Sherlock, you would have never even given me the time of day." With that, John crossed the "t" in "black tea" and briefly double-checked his list. As he did so, he continued, "So why would you be anything to me?"

Moriarty leaned over in order to scan down John's shopping list. "Feeling a bit neglected, Johnny-boy?" he teased as he finished reading it. "I apologize then. I'll make sure to divert some of my future attention to you so you'll have something you want to call me. How about love interest? Or even fuck buddy? Either of those sound good to you?"

"This again? How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested?" John snapped back, thrusting his list into Moriarty's hands. "And since you're here, you can take that with you and give it to whoever is stocking my fridge. Thank you and goodbye."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow at John but slipped the list into his pocket anyway. "I'm not done yet, Johnny. You haven't answered my question."

"Look," John responded, turning on his heels, "I'm not interested in being with you in any sense of the word. You're delusional to think otherwise."

Laughing, Moriarty replied, "We both know that's a lie."

John just shook his head and looked away. Moriarty could assume anything and everything; however, it was only until John said the words himself that Moriarty would be able to prove anything. And John was not about to admit anything like that anytime soon, whether it was true or not. "There's just no reasoning with you, is there?" he pressed before he let out a sigh.

"No, Johnny-boy. There's no reasoning with _you_," Moriarty countered, taking John by surprise. "Tell me, why don't you ever use my name?"

Confused, John quirked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"My name, Johnny. You've called me James once in all the time that we've spent together. Why is that?" he clarified, taking a step closer to John.

In turn, John took a step back. "I don't know," he lied, making sure to keep his gaze locked with Moriarty's. After all, he was not about to let Moriarty get the better of him.

"Oh, I think you do know," Moriarty said quietly. "I think you just don't want to admit it. You don't want to admit that giving me a first name – a rather ordinary first name at that – would start making me human in your eyes. Because it's easier for you to cope if you just see me as a monster, is it not? It's easier if you see me as this inhuman creature able to do all these seemingly horrific things." Moriarty was now towering over John, who firmly stood his ground. He might be shorter, but that did not mean that John Watson would cower beneath anyone. "But let me remind you that you're not so different from me. You believe you killed for a cause. You might interpret your cause as nobler, but what exactly is _noble_? You've killed men with wives and children… with dreams and ambitions… men who were just trying to survive. Men who didn't know any better or didn't see any other option. And you've killed a man for the sole fact that he almost got the better of Sherlock Holmes. If you think the cause alone is enough to separate you from me, you're wrong. I have my own reasons for killing, you know. Even noble ones. I've killed men who cheated on their wives, who were abusive, who were corrupt. I've bettered the world with my killings whether you want to believe that or not. I've helped people achieve their dreams of becoming rich or feeling free for the first time in ages. And here's the real kicker – we both got paid to do it. Sure, I made a lot more money than you, but we were both paid to go out and ensure a victory for our side. Now tell me, John: how is your cause better than mine? How are we different?"

John trembled slightly as these words rang true in his ears. "Enough," he choked out, shoving Moriarty back. "We're nothing alike, you and I. I killed because I had to in order to save my friends. You kill because you want to and the pay is nice. Don't try to lower me down to your level. I'm different than you. I'm a better man."

"Are you?" Moriarty prodded, smirking slightly as his eyes scanned down John's body. No doubt he saw the slight trembling. "Do you honestly believe that?"

Shaking his head, John responded, "Of course I do."

"Shaking your head 'no' while saying 'yes.' Clearly no conflict there then, Johnny," Moriarty jested pointedly. John set his jaw as he heard this. "Do you enjoy lying to yourself so blatantly? Seems incredibly counterproductive."

John retorted, "Haven't you had your fun tormenting me for the day?"

Moriarty pressed his lips together, his eyes still twinkling mischievously. "I'll leave you alone for the rest of the day. But really, Johnny, you should think about what I said." And with that, Moriarty grabbed his jacket, put it back on, and slipped out the front door. John let out a long breath before rubbing his eyes. Only 25 days left…

John had been enjoying his day alone. It was well after dinner, and he figured that he was in the clear for any sudden visits from Moriarty for the day. After washing the dishes, he decided to celebrate by making chocolate chip cookies. They were pre-packaged, which John didn't mind at all, and would only take 15 minutes to bake, which John minded even less. So he preheated the oven and waited in total silence for the oven to signal that it was ready. Once the oven beeped, John grabbed his tray covered in globs of evenly spaced cookie dough before swooping to slide it inside. Just as he is doing that, John heard the scratching of keys against the door. He instinctively jerked around to see if Moriarty was entering and brushed his wrist against the hot surface of the over door. Cursing, John leapt to his feet and jumped over to the sink, turning on the cold water as fast as possible.

"Ah, fuck, wrong floor," a slurred voice sounded out from the other side.

Rolling his eyes, John kicked the oven door shut. That would be just his luck. He burnt himself after being startled by the neighbourhood drunk. Clicking his tongue in irritation, he returned his attention back to his hurt wrist. From the looks of it, it was only a first degree burn. Besides stinging for awhile, it would cause him no other harm or nerve damage. John kept his hand under the cold water until the stinging transformed into a dull ache. Quickly, he shut off the faucet and searched high and low for a first aid kit. After looking for ten minutes, John debated on whether or not he should actually contact Moriarty for help. Part of him objected, not wanting to give Moriarty another reason to pop over and harass him. Another part of him decided to be the voice of reason, pointing out that he needed to treat his wound. John wound up staring at his mobile phone for five minutes before picking it up and sending a text.

_Please tell me you have a first aid kit hidden somewhere in this flat. –JW_

Drumming his fingers on the countertop, John waited three minutes before he finally got a response.

_Of course there's a first aid kit. Bedroom closet. Top shelf. –JM_

John immediately headed into the bedroom and quickly located it. After nicking one of the chairs from the dining table, he was able to reach the small blue box and pull it down. He brought both the chair and the first aid kit back to the dining table. Sliding the chair back into place, John heard his mobile give a pip. He picked it up to find an unread text message from Moriarty.

_Why do you need it? –JM_

_Don't worry. I didn't cut my hand off, in case that's what you're thinking. Burned myself baking. Nothing serious. Just a first degree burn. I needed to tend to it. –JW_

Honestly, John hoped that would settle Moriarty's curiosity and not cause him to come over. After bandaging his wrist in silence, John pulled out the finished cookies and let them cool. The air was filled with their sweet aroma, and he couldn't help but think that he needed to bake more often if it always smelled this pleasant. He watched a bit of telly while eating a few cookies with the milk he had left, making a quick mental note that he needed to write a memo to buy two cartons next time since he always tended to run out of milk rapidly.

At eleven o'clock, John finally decided to go to bed. He was rather relieved that Moriarty had not felt the need to stop in and check on him. So he puttered around the bathroom with his nightly routine before crawling into the king-sized bed and nestling under the covers. John was almost asleep when he heard the front door open. Stifling a groan, John decided that he would keep up his façade of sleeping in hopes that he would just be left alone. He listened to the footsteps slowly approaching him until they were right next to the bed. Suddenly, John found it incredibly difficult to keep a straight face. He could almost feel those eyes examining him carefully, and John didn't even let his mouth twitch. Without warning, he felt the duvet being pulled back enough to show his arms. Then he felt a soft touch over his bandaged wrist, and John became curious. It was Moriarty. It had to be. No one else visited him, and there was surely no one else bold enough to come into his bedroom while he was sleeping. Slowly and carefully, his arm was pulled out enough for the bandages to be removed. John stirred slightly, causing the other man to freeze for a moment. As soon as he was resituated, John felt the bandage slip away from his skin completely. The lamp next to his bed was turned on for only a few seconds, and John heard what he swore was a small sigh. The room was cast in darkness once more, and he felt the gauze being wrapped carefully back around his wrist. His arm was then cautiously set down and the duvet pulled back up. Without a word, Moriarty left the flat.

The next day, John emerged from his bedroom in order to make breakfast. As he went to open the fridge, he noticed a Post-It on the counter. Walking over, he picked it up and read it.

_Try your best not to injure yourself too gravely. I don't want to have to childproof the flat. –JM_

John couldn't help but laugh at the note before sliding it into a drawer for safekeeping. It's not like it mattered what he did with the note anyway. There were only 23 full days left before he left that flat for good…


	4. White Knight to F3, Black Bishop to E7

All things considered, John's day had been uneventful. He had wound up doing anything and everything in order to kill time – laundry, dishes, sweeping, watching crap telly, vacuuming, dusting – and was now fidgeting about. He felt trapped and stir crazy, so he took to pacing about the flat in hopes that some physical activity would calm him down. After three hours of pacing, John realised he was finally understanding how Sherlock felt when they went without a case for too long. He was practically itching to do anything at that point. Several times, he glanced at the door, debating on just how sturdy it was. He could probably kick it down. It wouldn't take more than three tries.

Just as John was seriously contemplating escaping for a few hours, he heard the front door open. He spun on his heels to find Moriarty, slightly dishevelled, entering the flat. "What happened to you?" John inquired, surprised to see Moriarty in any other condition than pristine.

"Mycroft Holmes happened," he spat out, loosening his tie.

When Moriarty didn't offer anything else, John pressed, "Did he tail you across London? Hire a sniper to take you out? Hack into your laptop? Stand you up on your date? What?"

"He found my primary flat," Moriarty snapped, clearly irritated by this fact. He slung off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. "I knew he would come after me the moment the plans were in his hands. I just didn't expect for his frankly laughable intelligence to actually succeed."

Raising an eyebrow, John couldn't help but smile in amusement. "So someone got the better of the great James Moriarty?" he goaded.

"Hardly," Moriarty responded with a scoff as he plopped onto the leather recliner. He reached over to grab the remote from the side table. "As always, I still remain three steps ahead of him. That's the key to our game, after all. You always have to plan ahead. He won't find anything in that flat. Nor will he find you, which is his main objective right now. But he has made his move, so now it is my turn."

John didn't like the sound of that at all. "And what exactly are you planning to do?" he pressed carefully, keeping his tone guarded.

"There are so many possibilities," Moriarty sang out as he flipped through the channels. "I hardly know which one to choose, to be honest. I could regain access to those plans and force Mycroft back to square one. Or I could ruin a different set of plans. Or I could rig a much needed election to go the wrong way. Or I could bomb some important historical site in order to gain attention." Pausing, he looked over at John in surprise. "Is this why Sherlock keeps you around?"

Blinking, John responded, "I'm not following."

"This whole... sounding board function you have," Moriarty answered, gesturing at him vaguely. "It's very easy to explain everything to you. Unnaturally so." He looked somewhat disturbed by this fact but otherwise kept his expression carefully guarded.

"I was once told that the frailty of genius was that it needed an audience," John informed him.

Moriarty appeared deep in thought, and his only response for a long moment was a hum. "Yes, I suppose so. Although I hardly find it a frailty. After all, what's the point of being brilliant if no one knows you are? I wouldn't have any clients if I kept everything under wraps." He then looked back at John again, critically examining him. "I think I'm starting to understand more why Sherlock lets you stay."

John rolled his eyes as he heard this. "As if Sherlock was the deciding power in that flat. As if I would just roll on my back the moment he ordered me to do so. Honestly, I thought you were sharper than that."

This earned him a glare from Moriarty in return. After another long beat, he perked up and added, "Now there's a thought! Maybe I could blow up 221B in order to get my point across to Mr Holmes."

"Leave Sherlock out of this," John bit back. If there was something he would not tolerate, it would be Sherlock being harmed because of something Mycroft did.

Moriarty smirked as he heard this. "And then there are, of course, the infinite possibilities I have when it comes to you," he noted nonchalantly. "After all, you are at my complete mercy."

John's blood ran cold. "You wouldn't," he challenged confidently despite his uncertainty.

"Wouldn't I?" Moriarty countered gleefully. "Think about it for a moment. I told you from day one that the Ice Man would try to gain something out of this. I automatically assumed he would be trying to gain intelligence – and I'm certain that that is still his backup plan. But something happened to disrupt that plan. Maybe he gained intelligence and no longer needs you to infiltrate my operations. Maybe he realised what a great babysitter you were for his little brother. In any case, Mr Holmes retaliated against me, and I cannot allow him to believe that he can just do whatever he pleases without consequence."

Frowning, John shook his head. "So you plan to punish me in the process? I've done nothing to deserve it," he retorted.

"No, you haven't," Moriarty conceded. John was surprised when he heard this. Cocking his head to the side, he waited patiently for Moriarty to explain himself. "I would give you the opportunity to work with me if I actually thought you would agree to it. Since I know you wouldn't, I am going to give you a choice. You can either help me put Mycroft Holmes back in his place or I can bomb 221B and achieve the same goal all by myself."

John didn't even think. "How do you want me to help?"

Without looking up, Moriarty began punching numbers on his mobile. "I am going to call Mr Holmes on my phone. You will get twenty seconds to talk. I want you to explain to him that another stunt like the one he pulled today will not only disappoint you but will also cause painful consequences. Next time, I cannot promise that you will come out in one piece. Do you understand?" he inquired, extending the phone out to John. Moriarty's voice had darkened exponentially, and John was no longer sure if the threat was empty or not. "And if you say anything to the contrary or try to feed him information, I will proceed with my plan to bomb 221B. The only thing you could hope for then will be that that sweet, little landlady of yours actually keeps to her schedule that day."

The glint in Moriarty's eyes conveyed that this was definitely no longer an empty threat. With a nod, John reached out and took it. Even if he knew anything about Moriarty's network and how it functioned, he wasn't about to put Mrs Hudson's or Sherlock's life on the line in order to give Mycroft half-arsed information. He would be more useful by waiting patiently to possibly obtain beneficial information instead. The mobile rang twice before John heard Mycroft coldly greet him, "Mr Moriarty."

"Actually, it's John Watson," he responded. Moriarty tapped his watch, forcing John to ignore Mycroft's onslaught of questions. "I must say, Mycroft, that I am incredibly disappointed by your display today. You made a deal with Mr Moriarty – exchange me for a month in order to regain the plans – which, if you recall, was something that I actually agreed to. I never thought you to be a man to renege on an offer. I certainly am not. So let me make this very clear for you. If you continue to pursue Mr Moriarty, I have been promised that I will not be coming back to 221B in one piece. If I do not return to 221B in one piece, we're going to have issues. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John. Of course. I apologize," Mycroft responded. His tone, on the other hand, conveyed the opposite meaning of his words. John did not doubt that Mycroft would do this all again if given the opportunity. After all, it was a way for him to determine the boundaries of their agreement. For the first time, John was finally beginning to see why Moriarty called him 'the Ice Man.'

Before John could say another word, Moriarty snatched the phone out of his hand and hit the end call. "Good boy," he praised mockingly as he removed the battery.

"I'm not a pet," John snapped back as he turned to head back into the kitchen. "Now you've got what you came here for, so why don't you leave me in peace?"

Moriarty started laughing, causing John to turn around in alarm. It wasn't a maniacal laugh, which is what John had been expecting, but a merry one instead. "Oh, Johnny, you're just too precious."

"What's so funny?" John pressed guardedly. He already knew that he wouldn't like what Moriarty was about to say to him.

"My primary flat was discovered by our dear Mr Holmes, so I'm going to have to spend the weekend here," Moriarty informed him, flashing him a wide grin.

Shaking his head, John responded, "Oh, no. No, no, no. You are _not_ staying here for a weekend."

"And who is going to stop me. _You?_ Are you going to kick me out of my own flat? That's cute, Johnny-boy. I'd really like to see you try," Moriarty responded as he turned back to flip through the television channels.

Rubbing his eyes, John said, "I thought you told me that you had plenty of other flats. If so, why stay here and with me?"

"Because my personal effects are in transit to my new primary flat. Until then, though, I need to lay low in a neutral location. Besides, it's only 48 hours. If you can make it 72 hours without any human contact whatsoever, surely you can last 48 hours with me."

"You'd be surprised," John muttered a bit spitefully as he headed back into the kitchen in order to make some tea. He quickly filled up the kettle with water.

Finally, Moriarty settled on a channel and reclined in his seat. John glanced up to find that Moriarty was watching Connie Price's show _Beauty Queen of Hearts_. At that, John couldn't help but burst out laughing. "What?" Moriarty inquired as he glanced back.

"Of all the shows you could have watched, you chose that one," John responded pointedly, shaking his head as he set the kettle on the stove. "Do you not see the irony in that?"

Grinning in response, Moriarty shrugged. "These reality shows are driving our society into the ground anyway. I mean, what sort of idiotic girls need to ask _her_, of all people, for advice? Look at her!" He motioned at the television in an exasperated manner. "Besides, women like to make everything so bloody complicated. Put something on. If it fits, wear it. Who cares if it looks like trash or not? Don't they know that men will sleep with them anyway?" He actually sounded scandalised by all of this. "I was doing us all a favour by ridding her from this planet."

"You should tell her brother that sometime. I'm sure he would greatly appreciate it," John commented sarcastically, hardly taken aback by Moriarty's indifference. "And women take so much time out of their days in order to look pretty for us. We should appreciate what they do for us more instead of berating them for it."

"Save the speeches for when you're trying to woo a woman, Johnny-boy. They won't work on me. Besides, you already know you can have me at any time. You just have to say the word," Moriarty responded, giving John a wink.

The kettle whistled, and John turned away in order to remove it from the stove. He was secretly glad for the distraction. It meant that he didn't have to outright deal with Moriarty. "Not interested," he repeated for what he felt like was the umpteenth time.

"You just keep trying to convince yourself that," Moriarty sang out as he turned back to the telly. "Honestly, though, what do you see in that woman? Why does it bother you so much that she's dead now? Or did she teach you what colours look good on you as well?"

"Blue, red, green, brown, and grey," John jested, although there was still a bite to his tone. After all, he had secretly enjoyed watching her shows with Mrs Hudson. It was a way for them to bond. "Although I have been told that camouflage is very flattering on me."

Moriarty actually let out a laugh as he heard this. "I can imagine," he commented, glancing back and giving John another wink. He turned back to pay attention to the telly while John finished preparing his tea. As he walked towards the sofa, he heard Moriarty ask, "What do you see in them?"

"What do you mean by _them_?" John inquired, not following Moriarty's thought process.

"Do keep up, Johnny. I know you're sharper than that," Moriarty jabbed, not looking over. "What do you see in these people? The people on the telly? The criminals who should be behind bars but aren't? The people who hire me? Hell, what do you see with anyone who lives on this insufferable planet? I just don't understand it. They're revolting and dull and utterly pathetic."

Rolling his eyes, John took a sip of his tea. "I don't expect you, of all people, to understand," he began, stalling for time in order to get his thoughts together. "It's hard to imagine you even had a childhood, nonetheless a family or friends." He slowly took another drink of tea. "Death doesn't just affect one person. After all my years in the army, I came to know that better than anyone. Every single person on this planet – whether 'good' or 'bad' – will be mourned in some sense. Normally, they have family and friends back home. Hell, even Connie Price had her brother. And it's those people who are impacted. It's those people who have to pick up the pieces of their lives and continue as if everything was normal."

"So you care about them because other people care?" Moriarty clarified, sounding slightly dumbfounded.

John shook his head. "It's not that simple. I'm just simply explaining why I cannot condone randomly killing people for money. I mean, they had lives. They might be boring lives compared to yours, yes, but that doesn't give you the right to take them away. And not only that, but you're stealing anything they could possibly do in the future. Their kids will either never be born or never know their mum or dad. Their future spouses will never get to meet them or their current ones will never get to grow old with them." Spinning on his heels, he faced Moriarty. "Who knows? Maybe Connie Price would have met a young girl struggling. Maybe she would have transformed this girl's life into something that the girl perceived as worthwhile. Maybe that girl wouldn't have committed suicide had Connie Price still been around to explain that any 'ugly duckling' could become a swan?" Their gazes remained locked as John spoke, and Moriarty made no move to cut him off. "There's a ripple effect when you kill someone. Even you have to know that by now."

"So who deserves to live then?" Moriarty inquired after a long moment. "You act as if you have all the answers and no conscience about anything else. So tell me."

Sighing out softly, John responded, "I don't make those choices. I'm not God."

"But you do, Johnny," Moriarty insisted, leaning forward in his chair and looking at John in interest. "You were a doctor on the battlefront. You decided who lived and who died out there."

John cut him off, "Hardly! I did my damnedest to save every person I could. Some died even despite my best efforts. But not once did I hold back because I thought someone didn't deserve to live anymore."

"Is that so?" Moriarty pressed. "So you've lived by your creed and tried to save everyone you could while out there. Well, everyone on your side. What about the men who weren't, though? Your so-called _enemies_? Did you even give them a second thought? Or did you just allow them to die and never once lost a second of sleep over it?"

Instantly defensive, John snapped back, "That was different!"

"Oh, is that so? Why? Because you were the one who killed them? Because it was you, that makes it all okay?" Moriarty inquired.

John shook his head. "I was protecting my friends," he started to explain.

"And so were they. Or they were trying to protect their families," Moriarty pointed out, cutting John off. "That cabbie you shot and killed was trying to save up money for his kids, you know. So they could go off to college. That's a rather noble reason to kill people, don't you think? And without knowing that, you stand there and claim that he deserved to die only because he _might_ have outsmarted Sherlock Holmes?"

John felt like he was on thin ice that was about to break underneath his feet. For his whole life, he had focused solely on the doctor side of him. He was a good man who had to do bad things for the right reasons. Now, it just seemed that he was no different from the men he killed. There was no solace in the knowledge that he was doing this for the greater good. Because was he? Never before had John felt so vulnerable, and he immediately loathed the feeling. "There are other ways to earn money," he finally said. "He didn't have to kill in order to save up for his children."

Moriarty examined John critically. Whatever he saw must have been enough for him to drop that part of the conversation. "So this woman who cyber-bullied her own brother in order to gain laughs and popularity should just be allowed to get away with it because – and I quote – she _might_have prevented someone from committing suicide?"

Rolling his eyes, John responded, "I'm not saying what she did to her brother was right, but I don't believe that she deserved to be killed because of it. Humans make mistakes, after all. We're all flawed in our own right. What kind of world would we be living in if we could be killed for such petty reasons?"

"A better world," Moriarty told him without missing a beat.

"To each their own," John said, allowing the point to drop completely. He wasn't in the mood to have a philosophical debate with James Moriarty. Letting out a sigh, he turned his attention back to the telly and took another long drink of tea. A calm silence settled between them as Mrs Price explained the importance of emphasizing the bust size in order to take away from the stomach. After a long moment, John finally pressed, "I take it that there is no negotiating with you in regards to the sleeping arrangement."

"You would be correct with that assumption," Moriarty responded monotonously, his gaze remaining locked on the telly. "I've already explained to you my reasoning. Besides, I can't imagine that you would be so shy. Not after serving for all those years in the army."

"Sleeping next to your comrades is different," John pointed out. "I could trust them with my life. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't trust you with my laundry."

Moriarty grinned broadly, turning to look at John once more. "And you shouldn't. I would burn it all in order to force you to walk around the flat naked. I'm still interested in knowing what you've got hidden under those frumpy jumpers. Do you by chance sleep in just pants?"

"I'll be sleeping in pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt whenever you're over," John informed him, purposely avoiding the question. Moriarty's grin widened as he heard this, and he took an especially long glance down John's body again. Polishing off his tea, John ignored the look as he licked his lips and lowered the mug to rest on the top of the sofa. "I sleep on the left side of the bed. If that's an issue, you are more than welcome to sleep on the sofa." With that, John headed back into the kitchen and set the mug into the sink. He would wash it in the morning. "Try not to wake me up when you finally decide to go to sleep."

Watching John carefully, Moriarty inquired, "Where are you off to then?"

"I'm going to take a shower," John informed him as he walked towards the bathroom.

"Shall I join you then, Johnny-boy?"

"Do you ever give up?" John groaned in response. Moriarty smiled at him and wiggled his eyebrows in response. "Stay out of the bathroom," he warned seriously.

And with that, he slipped in and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against the door and let out a long sigh as images of him and Moriarty in the shower flashed suddenly in his mind. No, he objected mentally. There was no way he would let James Moriarty get the better of him or his libido. He could do this, he reminded himself. If he managed to deal with Sherlock Holmes for an entire year, he could make it a weekend with James Moriarty – sexual tension or not. And there were only 22 days left overall for him to get through. Yes. He could do this.


	5. White Bishop to C4, Black Bishop to H4

_"Well, this is interesting," James noted as he slid down John's naked body towards his aching erection. He hovered just above it and let his warm breath caress it. "So sexually frustrated that you resorted to dreaming about me? I'm flattered."_

_Rolling his eyes, John decided to ignore the comment and instead retorted, "Can you just shut up for three seconds? I mean, it is my dream, after all."_

_"Oh, but you enjoy my cockiness, Johnny," James informed him before flicking his tongue out and barely touching the tip. John involuntarily bucked his hips in response. Smirking, James's gaze shifted up until they locked eyes. "There's much more that you enjoy about me than that, though." Finally, his hand wrapped around John's cock and gave a long stroke, almost inciting a small moan out of him. He wouldn't give in that easily, though. Not even in a dream. "I'm danger at your fingertips, after all," James continued as his stroking found a steady rhythm. John's breathing doubled as he controlled his corporeal responses. "I'm brilliant and a quick learner, which means I'll learn what makes you tick in less time than the normal lover." With that, John felt James's fingers tighten around his shaft followed by a sharp flick of the wrist with a swipe of thumb at the tip. Despite himself, John bucked into James's hand. "That's it, John" James murmured in John's ear, having leaned down at some point. "Just surrender to me. That's all you've ever really wanted to do, after all. Even at the pool, you were attracted to the power and danger that radiated from me. You wondered what it would have been like had we met first instead. If I would have brought out your soldier side instead of Sherlock bringing out your doctor side. If you wouldn't have to be struggling to keep your soldier side hidden beneath the good doctor that Sherlock sees you as. I know you wonder if I would have made your life thrilling every moment. If I would have made your body hum with that exciting energy every second of every day as opposed to just when I decide to grace you with my presence."_

_"Oh, just shut up already," John groaned out, trying to concentration on the physical contact instead of the verbal provocation. He tossed his head back and finally let out a moan as James gave a particularly hard stroke. "Just like that."_

_James raised an eyebrow before removing his hand, causing John to bite back a whimper. "Not ready to deal with such feelings yet? That's fine. You'll be facing them soon enough."_

_With that, he dipped his head down and licked up the entire length of the shaft. The broad swipe was teasing to say the least, and John whimpered in response. Reaching down, he laced his fingers in James's hair and shoved him down slightly. James chuckled in response before wrapping his lips around the tip of his erection and slowly sinking down to the base. John moaned as he tossed back his head, finally relieved to be surrounded by tightness and warmth. Thrusting up again, he tightened his grip in James's hair. James hollowed his cheeks and sucked back up to the head before flicking his tongue at the slit and causing John to let out a low moan. Gradually, he picked up speed with his sucks, slamming down to the base before sucking up so far that John thought James would pull his mouth away altogether. The rhythm was perfect, and John ran his fingers through James's hair in an attempt to keep himself under control. He suddenly felt the slight graze of teeth along his shaft, and John's breath hitched. Finally, John looked down to see James's head bobbing up and down between his legs. What really startled him, though, was the fact that James's eyes remained fixed on John's face. It was almost as if James himself wanted to memorise every reaction John gave him. In any case, the gesture was incredibly intimate and only turned John on more. James hollowed his cheeks as he gave a hard suck, and John let his eyes roll to the back of his head. This was just too perfect._

Waking up with a gasp, John blinked several times as he tried to sort everything out. The room was dark, but John's eyes had adjusted enough that he could see the majority of what was around him. Moriarty was still sleeping next to him, curled up with his back to John. He would have taken a bit more time to absorb that information, but his attention was diverted to his raging hard-on. It was rare that he woke up in such a way, so he figured he must have had one hell of a dream to work himself into that state. Biting his bottom lip, he slowly shifted out of the bed and crept out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. Once inside, he shut and locked the door before tugging off his pyjama bottoms. John sucked in a deep breath as he slipped a hand into his pants and worked his erection out of its cell. He closed his eyes as he finally felt that brilliant, needed friction of his fingers enclosing around and stroking the entire length. Immediately, his mind began pulling up images of naked women, round breasts, high moans or gasps, and tried to envision Sarah with her lips wrapped around his cock. Even as he stroked himself roughly, it wasn't quite enough for him. So he changed his dream woman into Emily, the thin blonde – and then Rachel, the busty redhead – and then Mindy, the beautiful Asian he dated for a month – and finally Nikki, the independent black woman who left John within a week. Nothing appealed to him enough to send him over the edge.

Just as he was about to give up, an image of James Moriarty in between his legs flashed before his eyes. John gasped as he felt his cock twitch in his hand, and the entire dream came rushing back to him. As his hand automatically picked up speed, John bit back a moan. He could still hear that deep voice whisper in his ear, see that head of brown hair bobbing in between his legs and those red, swollen lips wrapped perfectly around his erection, and feel that stare burn into his flesh. The way he had been teased and yet pleased at the same time replayed itself over and over again – a long suck from base to tip, a light flick of the tongue at the slit, hollowed cheeks sliding back down to the base, resting there a moment as if that's where he belonged. Before John knew it, he was on the verge of climaxing. Choking back a cry, he came in his hand and quickly stroked himself through it.

In the matter of seconds, reality came crashing down around him. Not only did he have a wet dream about James Moriarty sucking him off, he had actually gotten off to it later in the bathroom. John brought his right hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes as he tried to sort this all out. What was it about the man that drew him in? Why did was he so bloody stimulating for John? An answer flew through his mind, and John shut it down instantly. Moriarty – despite everything – was a physically pleasing man. He was lean but firm and defined in his own right. Those deep brown eyes always drew John in, and the way they saw through everything was fascinating. Especially since it was different than Sherlock. After all, Sherlock needed the attention and would state how he knew everything, which made it less of a mystery. Moriarty, however, enjoyed keeping everything to himself. He was able to deduce John's sexuality and the reasons behind it, which even Sherlock himself hadn't been able to do, and John was still trying to figure out how he managed to do so. So he was brilliant and handsome… as well as a mass murderer.

"What's the downside to that?" John groaned sarcastically.

He pushed all of those thoughts to the back of his mind as he cleaned up both himself and the bathroom. Once done, he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep – not with Moriarty lying right next to him. Heading towards the living room, he glanced over at the clock in the kitchen. It read 5:55 AM. John turned on and muted the telly, making sure to switch it so he could watch the 6 o'clock news. He watched it every morning since coming here, although he wasn't entirely sure why anymore. All they ever talked about was the war, murders, suicides, or other disheartening occurences. Even so, it connected him to the outside world, so John continued to watch it. Setting the remote down on the side table, he headed back into the kitchen as he debated what he should make for breakfast, seeing as how Moriarty was still sleeping – with good reason, knowing the time – and that he should probably be respectful of that. The last thing he needed at this point was to disturb Moriarty. So after several minutes of deliberation, John decided to cook omelettes. The prep work was silent enough, and the overall cooking aspect was incredibly simple.

So John set out on his task, cracking and beating the eggs as silently as possible. It helped that the door to the bedroom was closed, blocking out what little noise he wound up making. Once he was done, he realised that the bowl he was using had been large enough to skew his perception of how much he needed. He wound up deciding that he might as well make Moriarty breakfast too as opposed to just letting the eggs go to waste, so he grabbed two skillets and set them on the stove. He split the beaten eggs between the two before turning the stove on a low heat in order to give him more time to prep. As the eggs cooked, he went back to the refrigerator and started rooting around for what to add. He decided ham, cheese, and a bit of green pepper would do. If Moriarty didn't like it then he didn't have to eat it. John could have it tomorrow for breakfast if it came to that.

Just as John finished cutting up the green pepper, he heard the bedroom door open. He glanced back to see a dishevelled Moriarty in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and it struck John as strange. Moriarty chuckled as he looked John up and down. "Bit domestic, don't you think?" he inquired teasingly as he stretched. John couldn't help but notice the flash of stomach. Quickly, he looked back up only to find Moriarty smirking.

John wasn't about to grace that with an answer or a retort. It was far too early in the morning for that anyway. "If you don't want it, you don't have to eat it," he informed Moriarty before turning back around and turning the heat up on the stove.

Walking up behind him, Moriarty glanced over John's shoulder. "You should flip them over before putting the ingredients in. It'll ensure that the eggs aren't runny," he commented before heading towards the living room.

John cocked his head slightly as he heard this. Never once did he actually believe that Moriarty knew how to cook. It just seemed… beneath the world's only consulting criminal. He glanced behind him to find Moriarty lounging on the sofa and about to turn up the volume on the television. Instantly, John remembered the little game they had played just days before. After all, they were located in almost the same positions. Turning back around, he frowned as he recalled the rules – rules which he had agreed to. John Watson was a man of his word. If he agreed to something or made a promise, he stuck to it come Hell or high water. He let out a sigh as he carefully flipped the soon-to-be omelettes over. There was no doubt in his mind that Moriarty would catch the implication even if John didn't say anything at all. Sprinkling the ham, cheese, and green peppers onto the cooked eggs, he thought about just pretending like nothing happened. But his sense of honour shamed him for even thinking such a thing, and he bit back a groan as he realised that he wouldn't feel right until he fulfilled his side of the deal. So he folded the omelettes, grabbed two places, slid one onto each, and grabbed two forks.

Setting them on the table, John sucked in a deep breath as he braced himself. All he had to do was let Moriarty take a look at it and nothing more. Nerves were starting to get the better of him, so he started forward in order to just get it over with. Moriarty looked over at him as soon as he came within eyesight, and John slowly pulled off his T-shirt. Instantly, Moriarty's eyes widened in surprise and interest. "We had a deal," John stated matter-of-factly.

Realisation washed over Moriarty's his features. "Oh," he murmured as he rose to his feet. His eyes fastened onto the scar tissue on John's left shoulder. At first, all he did was examine the scar closely, even moving around John in order to see the exit wound on the other side. Much to John's relief, any deductions that Moriarty had about him were kept quiet. Just as John believed he was done, Moriarty declared, "I'm going to touch it." Although he would never admit it, John appreciated the warning. Moriarty's fingers lightly grazed the surface, pressing more firmly after a few moments. "Does it still hurt?" he inquired, curiosity colouring his voice.

"Only if I overwork it or hyperextend it," John responded as Moriarty shifted in front of him again in order to touch the front of the scar as well. "Can't throw a ball like I used to, though."

"And if I grab your shoulder too harshly and my fingers dig into it?" Moriarty asked as he lightly yet firmly pressed two fingers into the scar tissue. John paused a moment, debating on whether or not he wanted to arm Moriarty with that information. At seeing John's hesitation, he rolled his eyes. "Don't be an idiot. If I was planning to use that information to harm you, I would have just fastened my hand onto your shoulder and seen the reaction myself."

John knew he had a point. "It'll hurt, yes. You might even trigger my PTSD, so I would avoid doing something that reckless at all costs."

Humming, Moriarty took another minute or so to examine it, tracing it out carefully and deliberately, almost as if he was trying to memorise it. Finally, he pulled back. John relaxed slightly as he did so before tugging his shirt back on. That hadn't been as brutal as he thought it would be. Actually, it had remained rather scientific and unsentimental. After all, most people wanted to hear how John got the wound. They often wanted a play-by-play description. Moriarty, on the other hand, just wanted to examine it. Of course, he probably had already seen the reports. How he managed to get such sensitive army information honestly astounded John, who knew first-hand just how secretive the army was. After another moment of letting his eyes linger, Moriarty headed towards the table and picked up a plate and fork. As he began cutting off a piece of omelette, he queried, "So what changed your mind?"

"I'm a man of my word," John answered vaguely as he headed over to the remaining plate.

"And yet three days ago, you were swearing up and down that I was wrong," Moriarty pointed out, stabbing his omelette. "Something must have changed. After all, you don't seem to be a man who abruptly decides to come to terms with something he once perceived as a lie. Even if it actually isn't one. So what was it?"

John shook his head. "Look, you wanted to know if you were right or not. Now you know. Just be happy with that. And if you can't be happy then get over it as best as you can, because you're not getting any answers out of me. That wasn't a part of our agreement."

Scowling, Moriarty shoved a piece of egg that was far too large into his mouth. Even so, John still saw the gleam of satisfaction in Moriarty's eyes. "So it's just a matter of time, isn't it?" he asked after swallowing his bite.

"A matter of time?" John echoed, needing clarification.

"Before you give in to me."

John laughed sarcastically as he heard this. "That's _never_ going to happen," he stated before turning back to his omelette.

"I give you until the end of tomorrow," Moriarty predicted.

"Rather arrogant, don't you think?" John pressed. "After all, I've only admitted that I'm more attracted to you than I'm willing to say. That's a far cry from saying that I want to have sex with you."

Moriarty didn't seem fazed by this at all. "That was the hardest step for you, though. Everything else will be easier for you to come to terms with now that you can actually admit that you are attracted to me," he informed John. "Besides, I can be extremely charming."

"I have a proposition for _you_ then," John responded, feeling rather bold. After all, it wasn't as if he was going to allow Moriarty to win this time. In essence, he was guaranteed to get something that he had been wanting for awhile now. Moriarty looked at him in interest. "If your prediction turns out to be true, I will not only admit that you're right, but I'll allow you to do any kinky little thing you could possibly want to do to me during our first time. However, if your prediction turns out to be false, you have to remove any and all bugs from the flat. Sound like a fair to you?"

Grinning widely, Moriarty said, "It's a deal."

John smirked as he heard this. A fault that both James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes had was that neither of them thought they could ever lose. Meanwhile, John always gauged his capabilities and weighed the probabilities beforehand. Unlike their previous bet, he knew this time that he was guaranteed a win. In all honesty, he just could not wait to prove Moriarty wrong. That alone was almost enough to keep him abstinent for the rest of his life, so he doubted two days would be any hardship. The removal of the bugs was just a bonus.

"I have to make the first move," John clarified after eating some more of his omelette. "If you force yourself on me, it won't count."

Moriarty finished his omelette. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Johnny-boy," he stated before holding out his hand. John stared at it a moment before realising what Moriarty wanted. Quickly, he reached out and shook it, sealing the deal. Without another word, Moriarty headed into the kitchen. He glanced into the sink and paused a moment, probably noticing the glass John set down in there the night before. "By the way, you do realise that you have a dishwasher, right? Or do you not know how to use it? I heard new technology is hard for older people to understand and use."

John forced out a sardonic laugh. "You're bloody hilarious. It's a wonder that you didn't wind up becoming a comedian instead of a consulting criminal," he commented before polishing off the rest of his omelette and heading over to the sink as well. "The reason I don't use the dishwasher is because I'm bored and have nothing better to do. I mean, think about it! Assuming I sleep for eight hours, I have sixteen hours in my day to fill up. I can't leave the flat without you bombing half of London in retaliation, so I have to do what I can here to stay busy and not lose my mind. Hell, you can probably just fire the person hired to clean the flat, because I make sure it's spick and span every day when I have nothing better to do." He turned on the sink and blocked the drain before squeezing some dish soap into the running water.

"I didn't know you were so restless, John," Moriarty commented as he set his plate and fork in the sink. "I thought – what with you being a soldier – you would be fairing much better in such conditions. After all, it's not as if bombs are going off in the distance." He paused a moment before examining John carefully. "Or is that the issue? There's nothing here to keep you mentally alert? To make you stand on your toes and remain vigilant for any danger?" John purposefully didn't answer, and Moriarty scowled. "Should I go set off some bombs in London?"

Rolling his eyes, John fumbled around in the soapy water before finding his glass from the previous night. Clearly, Moriarty was going to force him to respond one way or another. "I just need something more to do with my time. I'm stir-crazy and can't find a way to properly expend my energy."

"I can think of several ways," Moriarty responded, smirking at him.

"Not interested!"

Moriarty laughed. "You could afford to be a bit more honest with yourself, you know. I mean, you took such a large step in the right direction today," he commented as he picked up a towel to dry with.

Instinctively, John handed him the clean glass before plunging his hands into the water in search for the next dirty dish. "I was once told that change doesn't come easy to _old men_ like me," he replied with a slight bite to his voice. "A young man even offered to teach me how to use a dishwasher. He was a nice kid, he was."

"Sounds like it," Moriarty concurred, grinning widely as he finished drying the glass and put it away. "You should have this bloke over more often if he's so understanding of your shortcomings."

"Shortcomings!" John echoed incredulously, thrusting the freshly cleaned plate into Moriarty's hands. Moriarty appeared legitimately amused by the conversation, and John was truthfully enjoying himself as well. "Well, it's a wonder anyone puts up with me!"

"Indeed," Moriarty jokingly responded, taking the clean plate and drying it. "You're a lucky man to have found such patient people."

John chuckled and shook his head as he cleaned off the second plate. "It comes with being older than dirt, you know."

It was when Moriarty laughed for the second time, causing John to smile in response, that it struck him just how strange this was. He was standing in the kitchen with the world's only consulting criminal, and they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation as they washed the dishes. It felt almost… normal to John. More disturbing, however, was the fact that he could actually see himself getting used to this. He wouldn't mind it if Moriarty stayed around a bit more – if they made fun of crap telly and quipped at each other's ages and appearances. Hell, John would actually find that entire scenario nice. It would be so different than 221B, where John couldn't even get through a show without Sherlock ruining the ending. Where experiments cluttered the table, making it impossible to eat together properly. Where John had to constantly argue in order to get Sherlock to eat or sleep or just take a damn shower! Where there wasn't a violin playing randomly at 3 in the morning. Suddenly, John felt a sharp pain to his chest. Even despite everything Sherlock did to irritate him, John still cared about him. He missed him and his crazy antics, although he tried not to think about it too much. And living with Moriarty would probably be just as outrageous although incredibly different, but that didn't make it better. Sherlock would always have a place in John's heart, no matter what he did.

In any case, there were only 21 and a half days left. He couldn't afford to start becoming attached now. Not even if Moriarty was showing a human side to him. Besides, how could John even know it was real? Moriarty was a brilliant actor, after all. He had proved that by fooling Sherlock Holmes. Who was to say that this all wasn't some great act to get into John's pants? Even as he thought this, John knew that it didn't ring true. There was something about their relationship that remained genuine. After all, they both knew who the other person was. It's not as if Moriarty had to hide the fact that he was a consulting criminal. Nor did John have to hide the fact that he was still a soldier at heart as well.

"Are you going to hand me that fork? Or are you trying to scrub it out of existence?" Moriarty inquired, breaking into John's thoughts.

Handing it over, John mumbled, "Here. Sorry. Zoned out. I'm told it happens to old men. Eventually, I won't be able to keep a train of thought for more than five minutes."

Moriarty gave him a strange look, which told John that his jokes had fallen flat, but he didn't say anything as he dried off the fork. Secretly, John appreciated it. After all, the last thing he needed was Moriarty openly trying to work out what was on John's mind. So he turned back without another word in order to wash the last fork.

"It's 12:01 Monday morning," John declared, grinning maniacally at Moriarty. "Monday morning, and I somehow managed to make it this far without jumping your bones." His voice was laced with sarcasm, earning himself a proper glare. Although most people would have probably cowered when seeing it, John couldn't help but grin even wider. "I won. I'm sort of tempted to kiss you now just to prove my point."

Not that it wasn't a hard earned win. Sunday morning rolled around, and John had yet to visibly show any sexual interest in James Moriarty. At that point, Moriarty decided to bend the rules a bit. Although John had to make the first move, that didn't mean that Moriarty couldn't try to incite that move. He never once touched John, but Moriarty would hover just behind him and whisper in his ear about what was going to happen to John if he would just give in – promises of light bondage, marking and claiming of John's body, heavenly blow-jobs, nearly cruel teasing, and rough fucking. As time passed, the descriptions became more vivid and more frequent. At some points, John had to take a moment in order to clear his thoughts, lest he start palming himself in front of the telly or in the kitchen. It honestly irritated him just how much Moriarty could get to him with only words, as if his body was betraying his mind. After all, he still had no plans to act on whatever it was he felt for Moriarty – even John himself wasn't entirely sure if everything was merely lust anymore, and that terrified him all the more.

But John's determination won out over simple lust. He wanted those bugs removed from the flat, and by God, he would have it. "I would say remove them at your earliest convenience, but I have a feeling that would be the day after I leave. So instead, I am going to inform you that I want them removed by midnight."

"How do you expect me to comply to that? It's 12:02 now," Moriarty responded, smirking slightly. "Honestly, you shouldn't demand the impossible from me."

It was John's turn to scowl. "You know what I mean," he retorted.

"How can you be sure that I'll keep my end of the deal?"

"Because you are a man of your word, despite your career choice," John told him.

Raising an eyebrow, Moriarty pressed, "And how do you know that?"

"You've proven it already," John stated as he got up off the sofa. "You made a deal with Mycroft before. Now, you're an intelligent man to say the least. You could have easily just made a copy of the files or given him the wrong files altogether. Once you had me, what could he do about it? But you didn't because you struck a deal." He stretched slightly and groaned as he felt his muscles ache ever so slightly. "Unlike most people, your name actually has some worth to it. You're proud to be James Moriarty, and you aren't going to tarnish your reputation. Not even for someone like me."

Rising to his feet, Moriarty examined John carefully. "Boil some water," he stated.

Normally, John would demand to know why Moriarty was making a bizarre request. At that very moment, however, he could not care less. He had won against James Moriarty. Not only that, but he got to rub it in Moriarty's face without being murdered right on the spot. Filling a pot with water, John set it on the stove and let it start to heat on the highest setting. "Now what?"

"Now you stand there and look pretty. And if I hear one more word about how you won, I will shove your head into the boiling water until the skin on your face peels off," Moriarty answered before reaching underneath the coffee table.

John kept his mouth shut as soon as he understood what Moriarty was doing. The bug was just a bit smaller than a thimble, and it was brought over and dropped into the water. For the next twenty minutes, John watched as Moriarty removed another twenty-four bugs from the flat. It was fascinating to see just how well hidden some of them were. One required for the front of the radio to be taken off. Another could only be accessed after the sofa was flipped over. There were several in the bedroom and bathroom, but most were distributed in the kitchen and the living room.

As the twenty-fifth one plopped into the water, Moriarty stated, "That's all of them."

"Good," John said with a nod. "And if I find out that you're lying to me-"

"As you said before, I am indeed a man of my word. As long as you don't cross me, that is," Moriarty stated, cutting him off.

Nodding absentmindedly, John glanced around the flat again and felt more comfortable. He turned off the stove before draining the water and pitching the bugs into the trash. "I'm off to bed then," he commented, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "Good night."

"Good night," Moriarty muttered automatically, heading towards the living room.


	6. White Pawn to G3, Black Pawn to G3

_Crash!_

John awoke with a start as he heard what sounded like dishes shattering. Blinking, he glanced over to find Moriarty sitting in bed, leaning against the headboard. Moriarty looked over at him before checking his watch. "13 minutes," he noted. John cocked his head slightly in confusion. "I was wondering when they would wake you up. For a soldier, you're a heavy sleeper."

"Actually, I've always considered myself to be a light sleeper," John answered, puzzled by Moriarty's observation. He paused for a moment as he thought about everything. "But I suppose being forced to sleep through gunfire and bombings would change that."

_Bam! Thud!_

Frantic, loud voices could be heard through the walls, although the words were too distorted for John to know what exactly the neighbours were arguing about. "Are they always like this?" Moriarty asked, motioning towards the wall that separated them from the angry couple.

"Not that I know of," John answered honestly as he pulled himself upright and leaned back against the headboard as well. "But God knows. If I'm as heavy of a sleeper as you say, I could have very easily just slept through everything."

Moriarty pondered this thought a moment. "I doubt it. You did eventually wake up, after all. And from the sound of their yelling, they've had this argument before."

"How can you tell just from the sound?" John inquired, fascinated.

"They're exasperated with each other, apparent through the pauses in their speech and the emphasis on some of their words," he responded matter-of-factly. He then looked over at John with a glimmer in his eyes. "Besides, I made out the words, 'We've talked about this already,' before you woke up."

Chuckling, John replied, "It would have been more impressive if you had left that last part out, you know."

_Thump! Bam! Crack!_

"What the fuck are they doing? Tearing the flat down?" Moriarty snarled. "I'm tempted to go over there and see who will pay more to have the other person killed."

John sharply looked over and examined Moriarty carefully, wanting to make sure that he was just joking with such a statement. After all, he could never be sure. But the gleam in Moriarty's eyes was only mischievous, not menacing, and he relaxed slightly. "Oh, come on now. They're slowly working it out on their own."

"And what exactly do you mean by 'it,' Johnny? The argument? Or how to murder someone?"

John grinned in response. "That remains to be seen."

The distant screaming became louder for a moment, and he could start making out some of the words. "Anniversary! – Every time! – Inconsiderate! – Dinner even!" mixed with "Work late! – Pay all the bills! – Forget? – Inconsiderate one!"

Moriarty raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes for a moment to show his exasperation. "Should I make us some popcorn?" he inquired as something else shattered against the wall.

"Shouldn't we call the Yard?" John responded, worried that the fight might be escalating too much.

Shaking his head, Moriarty told him, "If they were going to get physical, they would have done so already. Besides, calling the Yard would only bring them here. They would want to ask questions of all the neighbours and would start poking around this place. I would much prefer to keep the Yard away from this." He paused for a moment before pressing, "So are you refusing the popcorn?"

"Utter… Forever… Ungrateful!" managed to drift into the room.

"Might as well," John said, knowing there was nothing he could really do about the fight. "I won't be going to sleep until they're done anyway."

With that, Moriarty jumped to his feet – making John take notice that he was only in his pants and a T-shirt – before hurrying out of the room. The arguing continued, now too distant for John to make out any words, for the next three minutes. He shuffled back into the room with a bowl and set it on the bed between them. "Much better," he murmured under his breath before taking a handful. "Honestly, people get worked up about the most ridiculous things. So what if he forgot an anniversary?"

_Crash! Thud! Wham!_

"It's not that simple," John replied, taking a handful himself. It was strange just how at peace he was with the entire situation. Eating popcorn with Moriarty in the bedroom while listening to an argument next door. It sounded like an awful Cluedo solution… Before popping the handful in his mouth, he commented, "I don't suppose you've been in a relationship that lasted long enough to have an anniversary."

Shaking his head, Moriarty replied, "One night stands are much more my style. Short term relationships have happened, but none lasted over a month. Most didn't make it a week."

"May I ask why?" John inquired, now curious. It was strange to think that Moriarty had a somewhat normal dating lifestyle.

"Yes." Moriarty flashed him a mischievous grin.

Rolling his eyes, John grabbed another handful of popcorn. "Why?"

"I get bored easily," Moriarty told him after a moment's hesitation. He shrugged slightly. "Besides, I have to break it off before they start becoming sentimental about everything."

John frowned as he heard this. It was yet another good reason why he should keep Moriarty at a distance. After hearing a couple more shouts through the walls, he said, "Anniversaries are important things for an actual relationship. They mark milestones. They mark all the minutes, hours, and days you have been with this person. It's a day to really focus on your partner and remember why it is you love them. You get to reminisce about your better memories, and you're forced to push away all those petty things you argue about – even if it's only for a day."

Enraptured, Moriarty stared at John as he spoke, taking small handfuls of popcorn every now and again. "And your opinion?" he pressed after it became clear that John wasn't going to continue.

"I suppose it depends on who my partner at the time is. But I guess overall, anniversaries will always remain important to me," he said honestly before taking another handful.

"I still don't understand it."

Smiling softly, John said, "And maybe you never will." He chewed the popcorn as he thought. "I think it would be easier for you to understand if you were in a relationship long enough to have an anniversary. One that mattered, I mean – not a one week or one month one."

"Is that an offer, Johnny-boy?" Moriarty inquired teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

John rolled his eyes. "Not on your life."

"Shame."

_Thump! Thump! Thump! Bam!_

Both of them stilled as the flat next to them fell silent. After a long moment, John whispered, "Do you think one of them actually killed the other?" He was only half-joking at this rate, slightly worried about the sudden silence that took over the flat next door.

"No… I think one stormed out of the flat," Moriarty murmured in response. He took the almost empty bowl of popcorn and set it on the nightstand before sinking down into the bed. "Good night."

"Good night."

Although Moriarty went back to sleep, John felt too restless to do so himself. His mind was still trying to wrap around what he was doing. Rubbing his eyes, he could practically hear Sherlock's voice in his head right now, telling him how stupid he was being by letting himself actually enjoy Moriarty's company and opening up to one of the most dangerous men in the world. And how would Sherlock even react if anything actually happened between John and Moriarty? Would he be bothered that his best friend slept with his archenemy? Or would he be fascinated by the fact that Moriarty deemed John worthy enough to be his bed partner?

And how would John even begin to explain what happened? After all, Moriarty and Sherlock were strikingly similar – but John found that he was only sexually attracted to the former. Sherlock was a loyal friend, to say the very least, but he wasn't and never would be boyfriend material for John. "I'm married to my work" aside, he had a tendency to pay John hardly any attention until he wanted something, which frustrated him to no end. Sherlock also left him feeling remarkably ignorant more often than John cared for. That wasn't to say that Moriarty coddled him, of course, but he didn't give John the same feelings that Sherlock did. And then there were the remarkable contrasts that existed between the two – John didn't have to babysit Moriarty, Moriarty actually complimented his cooking even if it was in a backhanded way, he paid attention to John almost singularly when he decided to come over, and he came over quite frequently, implying that he enjoyed John's company. But how could he be sure with Moriarty being who he is? Even so, he couldn't ignore the fact that that was more than ever could be said for Sherlock.

Settling back down into bed, John stared at the ceiling as his thoughts whirled around. No matter how much he might complain about Sherlock, even if it was only to himself, there was no denying that John missed him. He tried to not think about Sherlock on most days, although that proved to be rather impossible given how much free time he had. He wondered how Sherlock was doing without him there. In all honesty, he wasn't sure what he would prefer – torn between wanting to be needed and wanting Sherlock to be okay on his own. He could only imagine what the Yard was dealing with right now since John wasn't there to keep Sherlock from texting them every three minutes. Hell, Lestrade might have even caved in and given Sherlock permission to go through the cold case files like he's been asking to do for months. That thought alone made John smile. Part of him wondered how Sherlock would react once he was finally back. Would he be more grateful than before for John's company and comments? Relieved to find John in one piece? Or would he just be the same old Sherlock? The thought that Sherlock would take one look at him and inform him that they were going to a crime scene amused John to no end, although he really wouldn't mind being appreciated more.

Closing his eyes, John let out a deep breath as he finally calmed down enough to fall asleep as well.

The next morning, John woke to an empty bed. He went about his day as always: making breakfast, watching the morning news, washing the dishes, adding to the grocery list, and cooking lunch. It wasn't until directly after lunch that something interesting finally happened. Just as John was about to start washing his plate, he heard the key in the door. He turned, and Moriarty swung the door open but remained standing in the doorway.

"What? Do you suddenly need permission to come inside? Get bit by a vampire or something?" John jested, slightly confused.

Moriarty scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. I own this flat. Even if I had been turned into a vampire, I wouldn't require your permission to come inside."

Raising an eyebrow, John pressed, "So then what's going on?"

"You and I are going to go on a little trip," Moriarty informed him matter-of-factly. John wasn't sure if he should be thrilled or concerned. "We're going to go take a nice stroll in the park."

John kept his expression carefully guarded. "What's the catch?"

"For one, you're not allowed to talk to anyone besides me. In fact, I would suggest that you don't even look at anyone else. I can't have you trying to escape at the first chance you get, after all." Moriarty paused a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I doubt that I have to worry about you trying to leave me – not when we're so close into making this something more – but I'm sure that you already know that if you even take a stab at it, there will be awful repercussions." He sang out the last part sweetly before grinning at John.

"You have nothing to worry about," John grumbled, feigning disinterest. He had nearly gone two weeks without stepping a foot outside, and he wasn't about to let the chance pass him up – although he wasn't going to give Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing just how much he needed this. "Do I need a jumper?"

"No. It's plenty warm out," Moriarty informed him. With that, John gave a nod before tugging on his shoes, noting how strange it felt to have his feet feel trapped inside of them, and heading towards the door. "And there is one more thing," Moriarty continued idly.

Huffing in amusement, John answered, "I knew there would be."

"How do you feel about blindfolds?"

"I beg your pardon?" John inquired incredulously.

Moriarty pulled out a blindfold from behind his back, and John instantly didn't want to know where he got it from. "I can't have you reporting anything back to either of the Holmes boys, now can I? Not when I've been so careful all the time."

"You've got to be kidding me," John pressed. "I didn't come here with a blindfold on!"

"That's because I knew I could distract you. It really was too easy to keep your attention fixed on me. Not that I'm complaining, of course," he responded. "After all, I do enjoy being the centre of your attention, Johnny-boy." He then raised the blindfold up. "So what will it be? Blindfolded and you get some time outside? Or not and you get to stay here?"

John scowled and glared down at the blindfold. He didn't like not being able to see around Moriarty, but the idea of staying trapped in that flat was even less appealing. So he snatched the blindfold out of Moriarty's hand and slowly slipped it over his eyes. "There. Happy?"

"More than just that," Moriarty whispered huskily.

"Not interested!"

Suddenly, John heard Moriarty's voice come from behind him. "You know, you say that the same way you used to say, 'I'm not gay.' So indignant with a slight panic to the tone. It's quite endearing if I must say."

"Are we going to the park or not?" John bit back, refusing to acknowledge Moriarty's statement.

Chuckling, Moriarty murmured, "So feisty. I like for my partners to have a little fight in them. Makes everything much more interesting in bed." All of a sudden, John felt a hand press into his back and give a small shove. He tentatively took a couple steps forward before pausing as he felt the hand suddenly leave his back. The door clicked shut, and the hand returned a second later. "Turn to your 3 o'clock," Moriarty ordered. John complied before feeling another nudge forward. He disliked not being able to see where he was going immensely, especially since he couldn't remember the building enough to even estimate the distance between the flat and the lift.

"This is bloody ridiculous," he complained, reaching out his hands in order to ensure that he wouldn't run into anything.

"But necessary."

John scoffed as he heard this. "Hardly."

Moriarty didn't answer for a long moment, and John heard the lift bing and its doors slide open. Once nudged inside, he turned completely around. Although John was somewhat curious as to how Moriarty was planning to play everything off. After all, it wasn't as if blindfolding people and leading them out of a building was a normal occurrence in London. The lift binged again, and the doors opened to what John assumed was the lobby.

As he took another tentative step out, he heard Moriarty exclaim, "Of course I'm not going to tell you where we're going. That's the whole point of a surprise, Johnny! I swear, all you ever want to do is ruin my fun."

Even John had to admit that that was certainly clever. Letting out a long sigh, he said nothing as he was pushed out of the building. A firm hand on his head told him he was about to be shifted into a car. The moment he was inside the car, he felt better. It was nice to be able to relax for a moment and not have to worry about running into something. "Nice touch with the surprise speech," he commented indifferently.

"Did you like that?" Moriarty asked rhetorically. "It went over better than I expected, although I knew there would be no issues either way. Your sigh really sealed the deal, though. I suppose I should thank you for playing along."

Shaking his head, John looked to his left only because he knew that Moriarty wouldn't be able to see his face. He then suddenly felt a hand on his knee, causing him to flinch from the sudden contact. Without missing a beat, he shoved it off. "What are you-?" he started to ask.

"You look good like that, you know," Moriarty whispered in his ear, warm breath caressing his skin. John instinctively jerked away only to have nowhere to go. "Blindfolded. Not able to see anything. Only feel, smell, hear, and taste." There was a long pause as John tried to calculate what Moriarty was trying to gain from the conversation. "They say that being blindfolded forces you to focus on your other senses. That it's incredibly erotic to do in bed. I can see why people would say that. Seeing you like this – all I can think about is undressing you and having my way with you. And I would be able to see every reaction from every small touch. Take you by surprise as my lips danced down your chest. Gauge your reaction as I claimed you with my teeth. Watch your breathing increase as I finally took your cock into my mouth and slid all the way down to the base. To know that the only thing you could feel was me as I sucked you hard, letting your dick hit the back of my throat as I did so."

By now, John was fighting to keep himself perfectly calm. It was difficult since the lack of visual stimuli made it easier for him to clearly picture everything Moriarty was saying. Swallowing hard, John rasped out, "I'm not interested."

"So you say, but I would have you screaming underneath me, John. I would have you pleading for more – harder – faster – oh, please, James, please." John shivered as he heard this. "Writhing and bucking and _begging_. You would look beautiful in such a state."

John sucked in a deep breath and started remembering all the surgeries he had ever performed. Before he knew it, he calmed down and was no longer on the verge of yanking the blindfold off and giving in to lust. "As I said before," he stated evenly, "I'm not interested."

"I see you got yourself under control. That's a shame," Moriarty commented.

John heard him shift back in his seat, and he relaxed just a touch. The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, which he didn't particularly mind at all. When the car finally stopped, he reached up and touched his blindfold. "I'm assuming I can take it off now, or are you planning to guide me throughout the park blindfolded as well? Because this excursion would be pointless if so."

Chuckling, Moriarty said, "You may remove the blindfold. Just remember the other restrictions set in place."

"As if I could honestly forget," John retorted as he finally yanked it off. Eyes fluttering open, he winced as the bright light blinded him. He blinked several times and collected himself before stepping out of the car.

They were just outside a small park, which was relatively inactive for a garden in London. Sucking in a deep breath, John felt like he was tasting freedom for the first time in months. He grinned broadly and started forward, not caring if Moriarty rebuked him or didn't even follow him at all. Finally, John could stretch his legs. He wanted to run until he couldn't move anymore, but he restrained himself.

"Take a quick jog to that tree and back," Moriarty stated, motioning towards a tree off the main path and probably just less than ten metres back. No one was anywhere around the tree or close to the straight line John would make running over. John looked back at Moriarty curiously, slightly sceptical of the offer. "It's obvious that you're itching to run. It'll irritate me if you keep up this atmosphere of being three seconds away from bolting. So just do it."

With that, John flashed a grin and sprinted towards the tree. It felt good to get his muscles working again and to stretch his legs to their full extent. Heart pumping, he sucked in several large breaths as it became difficult to breathe. He couldn't help but notice just how out of shape he had gotten just in the last couple weeks alone. At least living with Sherlock forced him to run around London and kept him fit. Reaching the tree, John paused a moment to touch it and catch his breath. A moment later, he was jogging back towards Moriarty, taking his time before hopping to a stop.

"Better?" Moriarty pressed, sounding bored.

"Much," John answered, unable to keep himself from smiling like an idiot.

"Back in the car then."

Crestfallen, John responded, "What? So soon? We just got here!"

With a shrug, Moriarty stated, "I'm a busy man."

"Oh, come on! I haven't been outside in nearly two weeks. Surely work can wait another ten minutes or so," he pressed. He didn't want to go back yet. Not when the air smelt so sweet and tasted fresh and pure despite the fact that it was London, of all places. In all honestly, John was perfectly comfortable in doing just about anything in order to stay, which is why he wound up pleading, "Please, James?"

Moriarty's eyes widened almost unperceptively as John finally said his name. He faltered a moment, glancing at the car and then his watch. After a moment's pause, he said, "Very well. We'll take a small walk. Come along."

John's spirits soared as he heard this, and he eagerly started down the path. Falling in step, Moriarty kept his eyes glued to his mobile. John really didn't mind it – not when he could enjoy the sounds, smells, and sights of the outside world. The trees were gorgeous and everything was a lush green. Hidden in those trees were chirping birds, probably caring for their little ones as they prepared to learn how to fly. For once, it wasn't overcast, and the sun beat down brightly on them. A few couples could be seen here and there, either walking together or sitting on a park bench while kissing. Normally, such a display would irritate John. Today, however, was not a normal day.

"Excuse me?" a woman's voice rang out. John instinctively looked over to find a woman with a map heading towards them. Tourist, clearly, going by what she was wearing and the map – and the fact that she had a distinctly North American accent, although John couldn't place if she was from the States or Canada. "Could you possibly help me?"

John instinctively went to answer when he remembered the restrictions. Snapping his jaw shut, he glanced back at Moriarty, who looked up from his phone. His expression, which had been of irritation just seconds ago, morphed into that of open friendliness. His entire body shifted from being hunched over and closed to standing straight with broad shoulders. "What are you looking for?" he asked with a pleasant smile plastered on his face.

"I'm afraid I got a bit turned around. Could you show me where I am?" she asked, flushing slightly in embarrassment.

"Of course," Moriarty said, gently taking the map from her and looking it. After a few moments of searching, he pointed at a spot on the map. "You're right here."

"Oh, thank you so much!" she replied, clearly relieved. "Have a lovely day!"

Smiling back, Moriarty replied, "You, too."

Once again, John marvelled at Moriarty's acting skills. And once more, he worried that he was just being toyed with. If there were no real feelings there, and John was just being taken advantage of… He stopped himself from going any further with those thoughts. What did it matter, after all? He already swore to himself that he wouldn't get involved with Moriarty, no matter how much he was tempted to. He shouldn't even be entertaining those ideas – no matter how much he might want them to actually happen.

"I thought you would slip up for sure," Moriarty told him as soon as the woman was out of earshot, pulling him out of his thoughts. John glanced over to find him already buried back in his mobile. "Since you love to help people and all."

"It was a close call," he responded, shrugging a shoulder. "I'm good with orders, though. Had to be when in the army. I can follow most of them to the T."

Moriarty hummed in acknowledgement. Abruptly, he looked up at John with a wild gleam in his eyes. "You just can't help but give me all sorts of naughty ideas, can you, Johnny-boy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John denied, throwing his hands up in a surrendering manner.

Chuckling, Moriarty shook his head and slowly turned them around to walk back the other way. "Enjoying your time out here?" he pressed after a moment's pause, not even glancing up at John.

"Very much so," John replied honestly, hoping that it might incite more outings like this in the next couple of weeks. He paused for a long moment before finally shoving back his pride. "Thank you for taking me out here. It's been lovely."

"Think of it as repayment for cooking for me all weekend long," Moriarty told him dismissively. "It was even decent cooking, too."

Rolling his eyes, John knew that was the closest he would get to a compliment from James Moriarty. "Git," he muttered somewhat affectionately under his breath.

"You were so well-behaved that we might even be able to do this again sometime," Moriarty continued. Either he hadn't heard John's comment or he just elected to ignore it.

"Really?"

Moriarty looked away from his mobile. "I don't see why not. Besides it'll just irk Mr Holmes to no end that I let you out of your cage every now and again, and he didn't even notice. Or even if he does, that there's nothing he can do about it." Without missing a beat, he turned back to his phone.

"Oh," John responded, disappointment reflecting in his voice. Of course – everything always had to link back to Mycroft and their game.

"You sound disappointed, Johnny."

"Not at all," John lied.

Sighing, Moriarty shoved his mobile back into his jacket pocket. "What should I have said? Should I have lied and told you that I am doing this only because I know you need it?"

"That would have been nice," John pointed out. "You're a great actor anyway. Why won't you pretend for me?"

"Because I want to fuck you senseless," Moriarty informed him matter-of-factly, taking John off guard. "You'll be the first person I've ever had who knows who I really am. There's something… hallowed about that. So I'm not going to sugar-coat things for you. After all, Johnny, you're a big boy. You can handle the truth."

Shaking his head, John retorted, "I'm not going to have sex with you, so you can stop worrying about that altogether."

"You're not going to have sex with me tonight," Moriarty responded. "But there's always tomorrow. Eventually, you're going to get tired of fighting those feelings trapped inside. It's much easier to act on them, you know."

They got to the car, and John was the first to slide inside. Both of them remained quiet for a long moment before he reached out a hand. "Just give me the blindfold and take me back to the flat," he said monotonously.

Moriarty hesitated for a moment before handing it over to John, who slipped it on without any quarrel this time. Neither of them spoke on the car ride back, and Moriarty only talked when he needed to guide John back into the building. Although John reminded him that he had already seen everything once, Moriarty was insistent that the blindfold remain over John's eyes until they were back in the flat. Once they were, Moriarty took the blindfold off and left without another word. Alone, John took a moment to collect his thoughts. There were only 19 days left, he reminded himself. He was pretty sure he could make it that long.


	7. White King to G0 and White Rook to F0

People often forget that John was a soldier… that he had served in several tours and had seen some awful things in his time overseas. Sometimes – when he was lucky – John got to forget about it as well. But when James Moriarty entered the flat with an all-too-familiar looking bloody scrape on his zygomatic bone, just under and to the side of his left eye, John knew that he had just come centimetres away from being shot in the head. Without saying a word, John rose to his feet and instinctively fetched the first aid kit while Moriarty removed his jacket and tossed it over the chair.

"Sit down on the sofa," John ordered calmly as he headed back over. Much to his surprise, Moriarty did exactly as he was told. Grabbing a dining room chair, he brought it around and situated himself in front of Moriarty. "What happened?" he asked as he opened the first aid kit.

"I know this might come as a shock to you, but there are people in the world who would like to see me dead," he started as John used a disinfectant wipe to clean up the dried blood on his cheek.

John jested, "Can't imagine why."

Ignoring John, Moriarty continued, "There's a hefty price on my head, and the first person to succeed receives several million quid."

"Who was it?" John asked quietly, assuming Moriarty knew the answer. It was hard to believe that someone made an attempt on James Moriarty's life and escaped unscathed.

Wincing slightly as John started disinfecting the wound, Moriarty answered, "An assassin infiltrated my network posing as a former soldier in need of a new position. He came with a high recommendation from one of my snipers, who I had considered at the very least trustworthy." He paused for a moment. "As if that matters anymore."

"I always figured you separated yourself from your… um… employees. So how did he actually manage to get to you?" John inquired, now insatiably curious.

Moriarty replied, "Let me make this very clear: no one gets to me. Not even him."

"You were centimetres away from having your head blown off!" John responded incredulously, shocked by Moriarty's sheer denial. "How much closer is it until someone 'gets to you'?"

"Actually shooting me in the head is a good place to start," Moriarty informed him, a small smile on his face. It was shocking just how indifferent he seemed to the idea, as if death didn't frighten him in the least. "Anything less is considered a close call."

Grabbing the butterfly bandages, John returned his attention to the wound. "So how did he manage to get so close then?" he pressed, not wanting to argue the point any further.

Moriarty paused and looked at John critically. "Let me ask you something first," he finally declared. "Why are you tending to my wound?"

"Because you came into the flat bleeding, and I'm a doctor. It's my instinct to help those who are injured," he responded.

Watching John carefully, Moriarty pressed, "And there's nothing more to it then? Nothing at all?"

"Like what?" John countered, not wanting to entertain the thought of there being anything more to his actions. That would complicate matters far too much. "Can't you just be happy that I tended to you without you having to ask?"

"That's the reason I'm unsatisfied with your answer," Moriarty explained. "Here I am, trying to keep the information I give you vague enough that it would not help Mr Holmes should you tell him it and yet detailed enough for you to understand, although I'm not sure why it even matters. It's really none of your business what happened. I'm only humouring you by giving you as much as I have. And yet you're asking for more. Why? So you can tell the Ice Man? Or because you care?"

John stilled where he was as he heard the bite in Moriarty's voice. He actually sounded slightly upset. But what astounded him more was the fact that he hadn't even thought of telling Mycroft about this. His goal hadn't been to obtain information in order to help the British government. Focusing on the wound once more, John commented, "If it bothers you that much, just forget that I asked. I was only curious. Besides, you're right. Everything you've said so far has been too vague to be of any assistance to Mycroft."

Moriarty said nothing for a long moment, just sitting there and letting John work in silence instead. Finally, he explained, "As every assassin should be, he was patient. He was hired two years ago and excelled in every job I gave him in order to catch my attention. Of course, he didn't know that I keep very detailed surveillance on any employee who might have the honour of meeting me – which you can be sure to tell Mr Holmes if he ever hopes to successfully infiltrate my web – so I knew almost immediately about his scheme. Unfortunately, my attention has been… divided lately. After locating my whereabouts, he saw his opening and took it."

"And now?"

"And now he's been permanently terminated from his position in my network," Moriarty answered vaguely, but John knew exactly what that meant.

As he placed the last butterfly bandage on the wound, John sat back and examined his handiwork. And it was at that moment he began to notice everything: the dark bags underneath the eyes, the pale lips, the wrinkles that were finally starting to show, the slight touch of dye to the hair, and the half-lidded look that only came from being unable to sleep well. He was worn down, John finally realised. And he was worn down because he honestly couldn't trust anyone. Not his employees. Not his clients. James Moriarty was alone in this world in every sense of the term – something that John understood and remembered all too well.

Suddenly, Moriarty didn't look like a psychotic criminal mastermind to John anymore. Not when he was sitting there on the sofa with that tired expression on his face. He looked like an average Joe – someone who would garner no special attention on the streets even in his Westwood suit. He looked… human. And then John realised that this wasn't the first time he had seen Moriarty's human side. After all, he had checked in on John when he hurt himself. Even sent a text to make sure nothing was seriously wrong. Then there had been all those times he came to visit. He honestly didn't even have to. Hell, he could have left John alone for the entire month or actually only visited once a week. And then there had been the trip outside. By no means did he have to do that either, and yet he had taken the time out of his schedule to do so. Which meant that he did it because he _wanted_ to. And he knew that this side – so carefully hidden and shrewdly revealed to John – was the personal side. This guy who took the time to eat with John and do the dishes later was James. And John understood perfectly that James and Moriarty were the same person only in separate situations – just like the doctor side and the soldier side of John.

And then John's eyes locked onto the wound again. Centimetres. It had been just centimetres that had kept James Moriarty in this world. Deep down, that struck a chord with John. After all, he had seen plenty of death before during his years in service. He held men as they took their final breaths and whispered out their last words, sometimes even after he had desperately tried to save them. He lost good men – fellow soldiers – close friends. And now this. It was nothing more than a close call, but it forced John to recognise his mistake in judgment. After all, he always assumed that Moriarty would outlast everything and everyone. John knew that he was mortal just like the rest of them, but there was just an air around him that made him seem untouchable. And then this suddenly happened, and John knew that he wasn't. That "Moriarty" might survive through a protégé, but James would eventually die. John finally grasped just how close he had come to losing any chance to know what James tasted like… what he felt like under John's fingertips… and John wasn't satisfied with that anymore. Not after nearly losing any chance at all. And in all honesty, he knew now that he would regret never taking this fleeting opportunity presented to him.

So John Watson didn't think as he leaned forward and gently kissed James. It was a chaste kiss with just lips pressed against lips. After a moment, he grasped that James wasn't responding to the kiss. Pulling back, he wondered if he made a mistake – if Moriarty had just been toying with him all that time. The thought in and of itself iced his blood with horror and yet disappointed him at the same time. And then he felt a hand suddenly on the back of his head, and he was yanked forward into a bruising kiss. James took advantage of his open mouth and slid his tongue inside and exploring John's mouth thoroughly, as if he wanted to memorise it in one go. Moaning, John forced James to retreat after a while, wanting his own chance to taste James on his tongue. Instead, James sucked John's bottom lip between his teeth, scraping it almost painfully, before releasing it and nibbling at it. John groaned impatiently, unsatisfied with the fact that he couldn't get what he wanted as well. He heard James's chuckle before his bottom lip was left alone. Opening his mouth a bit wider, James flicked his tongue at John's, thus coaxing him to explore.

Just as John got a smattering of James's exotic taste, he felt two hands slide under his legs and pull him up off the chair. His startled cry was muffled by the kiss as he was tugged into James's lap, straddling him. Abruptly, he felt two hands tugging his jumper up. He understood immediately what James wanted, and he pulled back. In one swift movement, James yanked the jumper up and off, his nails scratching John's sides as he did so. The sudden sting sent a jolt of electricity through John's body and caused him to shiver in pleasure. Never before had a partner been so forceful… had made him feel so wanted. As soon as the jumper cleared his head, John returned his attention to James, his fingers frantically undoing the buttons of the shirt that kept him from feeling James's skin. His lips were captured again, their teeth rattling against each other in a biting kiss, and he felt hands in his hair, fingers stroking and gliding through it. Once John unbuttoned the shirt, he reached up to the shoulders and pulled hastily down. James dropped his arms, letting John remove his shirt, before wrapping them around John's waist and pulling him closer. Suddenly, he felt a pair of lips kiss down his jawline and neck as he felt a tug at his belt.

Hands trailing across the skin he had so desperately wanted to feel, John gasped as he felt James knead his trapped arousal through his jeans. James smirked before repeating the motion, causing John to buck involuntarily in search of more friction. Breathing now doubled, John rested his head on James's shoulder, burying his face in James's neck and gently placing kisses and nips there. His hands quickly mapped out every contour of James's chest, feeling the fine definition of the different muscles. As John teasingly pinched James's nipples, he heard a faint gasp in response and mentally noted it. Suddenly, his belt cleared the loops, and James unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans in the matter of seconds. There was then a flurry of movement, and the next thing he knew, he was laying on the sofa underneath James, who was hovering above him with a dark gleam in his eyes. "Mine," he suddenly growled before sinking his teeth into the skin just above the clavicle. Pain mixed with a rush of adrenaline, and John moaned as he felt his cock twitch. It wasn't hard enough to break skin – that much John could feel – but it would definitely leave a bruise… a mark of ownership. And in that very moment, John did not care.

James quickly and roughly tugged John's jeans down before slipping a hand into his pants and finally giving John a few firm strokes. Moaning, he arched his back and bucked into James's hand. He ran his hands down James's back as he felt James press a couple more kisses into his throat. Then, he ran his hands up James's chest before beginning to massage and tweak his nipples. James's breath caught in his throat, and his hand paused for a moment. Leaning up, John latched onto James's neck. He wasn't going to be left the only one marked, after all. He sucked and nipped meticulously, making sure to never be hard enough to cause anything more than a slight discomfort. Pulling back, he examined the now flushed flesh carefully, feeling satisfied. It just so happened that this was at the same time James gave a sharp flick of his wrist before gliding his thumb across the tip of John's erection. Moaning again, John sank back into the sofa. James grabbed one of his hands before gliding it down to the bulge in his own trousers. John understood almost immediately what was wanted, and he went to work on undoing James's belt. The mixture of working around James's hand and the fact that John just wanted to enjoy being touched again made it difficult for him to concentrate. Finally undoing the belt, John swiftly unbuttoned the trousers and shoved them down along with James's pants, effectively freeing his erection.

Before John could take it into his hand, James pulled away and out of reach. His hand left John's cock, actually inciting a small whimper, and he pulled John's pants and jeans down all the way to his knees. Returning to lie on top of John, James them both in one hand and began stroking them roughly together, making sure to smear their pre-cum around and down their shafts. John's hands flew instantly to James's back, clutching at it desperately as he moaned and bucked into the touch. He felt like his mind was going into overdrive. Suddenly, he felt a pain bloom in the side of his neck, and he finally noticed James was once again attacking it. After he felt a teasing nip coupled with a rough stroke, John dug his nails into James's back and heard a soft grunt of pleasure in response. The next pull was harder than the last, and John realised that James, too, enjoyed a certain roughness. Bucking up into James's hand and against his hard erection, John let out a low moan before dragging his nails down James's back with more purpose this time. He was rewarded by feeling James hesitate for a second before lowering himself to bite at John's chest. Arching his back, John panted breathlessly as he firmly gripped James's arse. James's teeth locked down on his chest once more, and John let out a low moan before bucking involuntarily. He was getting so close that he could feel that almost painful coil in his stomach winding up.

"John," James panted out, his warm breath caressing John's ear. John honestly had no idea when James had moved up, and he moaned in response, encouraging James to continue. "Come for me. Let me see you lose control under my touch."

"J-James," John stammered out, his body tensing as he felt himself reaching the edge. He didn't want to lose control just yet, though. It felt like they had just started.

"Don't fight it, John," James murmured in his ear, giving another particularly rough stroke. "Just come."

At hearing that order, John felt the coil in his stomach unravel. His entire body tensed – toes curling, back arching, and arms and legs rigidly straight – as he finally came in James's hand. His scream was muffled by a kiss, as if James wanted to swallow it, as waves of pleasure and satisfaction washed over his entire body. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he came so hard. Maybe it was never. Ecstasy still coursing through him, John blinked a few times, his vision having turned white for a moment from the sudden rush of hormones, before he was able to focus once more. James slowly broke the kiss. Panting, John collapsed, boneless, into the sofa and stared up at James, who must have come sometime during John's orgasm due to the fact that he was now flaccid and appeared quite sated.

Looking down at John's semen-covered upper torso, James murmured, "You should take a shower."

John, however, wanted to enjoy his post-coital bliss first. "In a minute," he retorted, sucking in large, deep breaths.

"In a minute, you're going to be too tired," James pointed out.

"I know that! I am a doctor, after all."

Motioning towards the bathroom, he responded, "Off with you then. I'll clean up whatever mess we made here before going to bed."

Grumbling, John got to his feet and kicked off his pants and jeans properly before heading towards the shower. His mind hummed pleasantly with the chemicals just released by his orgasm still working full force. After quickly washing himself off, John walked into the bedroom with a towel on, dropped it, put on a pair of pants, and clambered into the bed next to James. Just as he felt himself drifting off, John could swear that he felt a pair of arms draw him into something broad, solid, and warm.

The next morning, John woke up to find James Moriarty gone, but he was most definitely not alone. His thoughts buzzed in his mind as he remembered everything that had happened the night before. And the only thing he could wonder was what the hell he was thinking at the time. Or, better still, why hadn't he been thinking? Sentiment had overridden logic, he supposed, and now he was going to have to deal with the aftermath of the situation. His relationship with Moriarty – James – whoever the fuck he was – had just changed. He had willingly given himself over to this man. How was he to ever look Sherlock in the face again after betraying him like this? After willingly being with his arch-enemy? The man who strapped a bomb onto John and sent him into a pool all for Sherlock's attention?

And then there was that word – that simple in-the-moment word – that wound up imprinting itself in John's mind. "Mine." He had been claimed, if even for just a moment, and he hadn't minded it. That concept startled John most of all – his acceptance to being someone's without them first asking for his permission. And what exactly was meant at the time that it was said? Obviously, John had denounced again and again that he would ever give himself over, which it shamed him a bit that he hadn't kept to his word. So was Moriarty throwing it back in his face that he had finally given in? Or was there a more personal aspect to it? Perhaps James actually _wanted_to have John as his own, as cheesy as that sounded – and even John grimaced as the thought crossed his mind. It just seemed so… un-Moriarty. Then again, John was dealing with James, and that was the key difference. Moriarty wouldn't have cared about John in the least. He would have seen him as a means to an end – a way to hurt Sherlock. On the other hand, James might actually want John for himself, even if it wasn't in a romantic way. Even if it was all just sexual.

John felt sick and guilty and confused. And so he didn't move. He simply remained in bed and stewed, angry at himself for letting his guard so down… upset that he actually _enjoyed_ the whole damn thing… pissed that he had to be attracted to James Moriarty of all people… frustrated that there was still well over two weeks left for him to get through… and uncertain about how he was going to address this later on.

Suddenly, he heard the front door open, and he covered his face with his hands as he released a weak groan. Footsteps sounded out, coming closer before finally stopping altogether. Looking up, John found himself under intense scrutiny.

"I see you've been brooding," Moriarty stated as he leaned in the doorway. "Tell me, have you gotten anywhere in the last 9 hours or so?"

Eyes widening, John glanced over at the clock. It was almost eight o'clock, and he swore his mind must have been playing tricks on him. How had he managed to stay in bed all day? Immediately, his stomach rumbled in complaint, reminding him that he had yet to eat. "No," he finally answered. "Look, we need to talk about what happened last night."

"Yes, I know," Moriarty responded, cutting him off, before lifting up a bag. John's stomach lurched as he recognised the logo on it. It was from his favourite Chinese take-away place. Looking up, he watched as Moriarty loosened his tie as he walked over, and John relaxed slightly as he realised that he was wrong. This wasn't Moriarty at all. This was James. Only James would have ever taken the time to do this and not expect something outright from the moment he walked into the room. "Kung-Pao chicken. Extra spicy. With white rice," he said as he pulled out a plastic container and handed it to him.

It was John's favourite, and part of him wanted to ask how on Earth James knew that. Another part just wanted it to be left a mystery. "Thank you," he said, gently taking the container and carefully opening it. The aroma hit him like a ton of bricks, and John groaned as he savoured it. "Fork?"

"Chopsticks," James answered, handing them to John.

"I don't know how to use these."

Smiling, James responded, "I know. I'm going to teach you. First, break them apart so you have two." John complied with the order, managing to snap them evenly. "Now hold one of the chopsticks as you would a pencil." Taking one into his left hand, John resituated it and looked up expectantly. "Alright, now you're going to pinch the other chopstick between your thumb and index finger." John did as was told, but James shook his head and reached down, his fingers nimbly twisting the chopstick around in his hand in order for the tips to parallel each other. "Your index finger will control everything. Give it a try."

John looked down at his Kung-Pao chicken, slightly unsure as he lowered his chopsticks down and pinched the first piece. He carefully lifted it and took a bite before grinning victoriously. "You learn something new every day, right?" he pressed before carefully picking up another piece.

"I believe that is the common phrase, yes," James replied as he broke his own chopsticks. A long moment passed as they ate together in silence, John slower than James, before he inquired, "Feeling better?"

The question startled John, who had not realised just how much more relaxed and relieved he had become in the last couple of minutes alone. Of course, that was all probably due to James's genius. Set John up with a different challenge in order to get his mind off the issue. "Yes, but we still have to talk," he pressed, not willing to let everything drop.

"I understand," James replied. "I take it you have thought through everything thoroughly today. And what conclusion have you come to?"

The problem was that John hadn't come to any solution whatsoever. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, undecided as to which he would rather run headlong into. So he said the first thing that came to his mind, "I think we should forget anything ever happened."

"Why?"

"Why?" John echoed, shocked the question even came out of James's mouth. "Because you're Sherlock's-"

"_This_ has nothing to do with Sherlock," James cut him off, glaring at him.

Frowning, John responded, "_This_ has everything to do with Sherlock. He's the only reason I was brought here. Hell, he is the only reason we even met in the first place! So don't try to brush everything off by saying that Sherlock doesn't play even the smallest role in this entire scenario."

"What you fail to realise is that this is between you and me. No one else has the right to stick their nose in our personal business." There was an air of finality in his voice, as if this wasn't up for discussion.

"Sherlock's my best friend. I'm essentially betraying him," John retorted bitterly.

"How?"

These one word questions were really starting to irritate him. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he replied, "Because I'm with _you_. His arch-enemy. The man he plans on taking down someday. Don't you see how it might be a betrayal when I'm sleeping with the very same bloke?"

"Are you giving me information about his cases?" James inquired.

"No."

"What about his personal life? Habits? Weaknesses? Anxieties?"

"No," John reiterated, not sure where James was going with this.

James replied, "So you're not giving me any pertinent information about Sherlock Holmes. You're not telling me things that could later be used against him. So remind me again as to how this would be a betrayal, seeing as how you're not turning sides."

John floundered for a moment as he processed this information. When James put it like that, everything seemed so much easier to accept. He wasn't betraying Sherlock – not really. And James would gain no information from this arrangement either. John would never allow something like that to happen. "That being said," he finally murmured, knowing that not everything was that simple, "why did you take me hostage if not to glean what you can about Sherlock?"

"None of that is of importance," James told him.

"Like Hell."

Glaring at him, James snapped back, "The game I'm playing with Mycroft is much bigger than you and Sherlock. It has many unwritten rules, and I wanted to prove that I was willing to break them in order to win. That is your explanation, and be happy you even got that much. Now back to the matter at hand. You're not betraying Sherlock if you're not informing on him."

"He would still be hurt if he ever found out that I willingly slept with you. That I shagged his arch-enemy while I was gone," John pointed out matter-of-factly.

"You honestly think that? Or do you think he would be fascinated by the fact that I chose _you_, of all people? Or do you think he'd try to deduce what had happened between us? Or that he would honestly care at all?" John went to cut in when James quickly added, "Does this affect his work at all?"

"Well… no…" he confessed, sinking further into the bed. Why did nothing seem as complicated as he had made it out to be earlier?

"And do you think Sherlock will care about anything besides his work?" James asked quietly.

Shaking his head, John sighed out, "I don't imagine he would."

"Then remind me again why we have to give this up," James prompted.

Confused and exhausted, John groaned out, "I don't know. Maybe because it can't last?"

"Your point being? 99% of relationships 'don't last,' you know. Generally, you only wind up marrying one person out of the lot. Maybe more, depending on personal circumstances. So why can't we just enjoy the right here and now as we would have had I been anyone else?"

"Because it's not going to be enough!" John replied, a bite returning to his voice. He stopped himself from continuing and flushed bright red. What was he thinking?

James gauged him for a long moment, saying nothing in response. "Let me ask you this – did you ever once regret what we did last night? Did you ever once wish that we hadn't done it?"

Staring down at his food, John thought back. He had been agitated about the entire ordeal, yes, and just how much it wound up meaning to him… but not once had he thought that he would have preferred for it never to have happened. Life would have been easier, yes, but not necessarily better. "No," he finally confessed.

Very quietly, James inquired, "And do you really want for us to pretend like nothing happened last night?"

John hid his face behind a hand. "No."

"Then let's not," he insisted, shifting closer to John. "There's nothing wrong with what's happening here, you know. Nothing to be ashamed about. Besides, no one has to know about us. It's not as if you have to tell anyone that we were having sex. And I'm not about to go out and tell everyone about fucking you. It would be… counterproductive."

And just like that, John felt like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. "Why did you leave me alone all day before talking to me about this? Why did you let me suffer in silence for so long when this was all that we needed to talk about?" he pressed, angry that he had lost his entire day due to worrying over nothing.

"Because you wouldn't have listened to me," he responded matter-of-factly. "You needed your time and space in order work things out for yourself. You needed to recognise exactly what it was about our relationship that bothered you before we could discuss it at any length. And you would have been much too defensive this morning for me to reason with you at all. And when I came back, you would be much too stubborn to finally admit that you were wrong."

"Talk about pot calling the kettle black," John shot back.

Raising an eyebrow, James told him, "You have yet to prove me wrong, Johnny-boy."

"The weekend bet," John reminded him.

James scowled slightly before shoving another bite of food into his mouth. "Doesn't count."

"Yes, it does," John stated with a small smile. "And you're proving my point by denying it."

Rolling his eyes, James swallowed some rice before retorting, "As if it matters. You're mine now."

"And that's something else we have to talk about," John countered. "Just because we're shagging doesn't mean I'm _yours_."

James paused a moment, his eyebrows furrowed together as his gaze slid off into the distance, almost as if he was perturbed by this, before returning. "What does it matter what I say while in the heat of the moment? Especially since we're just fucking," he finally bit back.

"Because I don't feel comfortable with being claimed by you in such a fashion, what with this being what it is. You can't just throw words like that around wantonly. They carry meaning," he informed James earnestly as he struggled to pick up a pepper with his chopsticks.

James looked like he wanted to say something in response, but he merely took another bite of food. "I hardly see what the matter is," he finally answered.

John let out a sigh. "Of course not." Pausing another moment, he felt his bladder finally start to complain, sending a sense of urgency through his body. That was good, at least. He needed to get away for a moment despite the fact that James had just arrived.

"Where are you going?" James pressed as John set his food aside and went to clamber out of bed.

"To the bathroom," John responded nonchalantly.

Just as he rose to his feet, John heard James call out, "John?"

He turned to look at James, his eyebrow raised questioningly. James leaned forward in the bed, and he realised immediately what was going on. He was being asked a very simple question: are we going to continue being intimate or are we back at square one? Bending down, John leaned in and pressed a soft, chaste kiss against James's lips. His answer was definite: yes, we are going to continue forward with this. As soon as he pulled back, he saw a faint smile grace James's features.

"What?" John asked, feeling a bit paranoid.

"Look at yourself in the mirror when you go to the bathroom," he murmured in response before turning back to his food.

Without asking another question, John shuffled into the bathroom. He was still only in his pants due to the night before, and he looked up at the mirror and gasped. All across his body, bruises of teeth marks and love bites coloured his skin. His hand lightly trailed across each and every one of them, and he couldn't help but smile fondly. There was a sense of being wanted when it came to those marks. No matter how strange that sounded, John actually felt valuable with his body being claimed like that. Cared for – almost _loved_. And part of that horrified him. He had always been able to dismiss his feelings as mere lust. But now that he had had James and had been claimed by James, he wasn't entirely sure if that was true anymore. And if they weren't… He didn't even want to get into that aspect of his thoughts just yet. Going through such feelings would lead him nowhere good. Even so, it was at that moment he decided to stop counting down the days until he left. All he was going to do was live in the moment and enjoy what time he had left with James… and pray that leaving wouldn't destroy him.


	8. Black Pawn to H2

John was having a remarkably lazy day. He woke up alone and wound up not even putting on a shirt, enjoying the feeling of walking around in pyjama bottoms and not needing to worry about having to dash off somewhere last minute. Still, part of him missed getting those random calls from Lestrade and watching Sherlock get so excited because finally something "interesting" was happening in the otherwise dull city of London. He thought about Sherlock affectionately before his heart gave a small ache. He knew it well, having experienced it many times before in his life. It was homesickness. Sherlock was like family now. Time slowly ticked by, and he eventually decided that he would make a sandwich or two for dinner. He scavenged the refrigerator before finding what he wanted – some sliced cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, and ham – and setting it on the counter. Then he grabbed an apron since he had a tendency to make a mess out of everything. Taking a tomato in his hand, he set it down on the cutting board and started carefully slicing it. Just as he did so, he heard the front door open.

"Welcome home," he said wryly, glancing up from his tomato. "Are you sure that you're not just going to make this your primary flat?"

Scoffing, James kept his back to John as he took off his jacket. "Definitely not. My primary flat is much more posh than here. It can hardly hold a candle to this place, you know. Awfully late to be making yourself dinner."

"Wasn't hungry earlier," John responded, glancing back at the clock. When did it become ten without him noticing?

James hummed in response and then glanced over for a second before turning fully and staring at John. "Are you only wearing an apron?" he inquired.

"Of course not. I'm also wearing pyjama bottoms," John responded, looking at him incredulously. "Why would I be naked in an apron?"

James's face dropped just a bit as John said this. "I don't know – maybe you have a fetish?"

"Sounds like you have a fetish, to be honest."

Smirking, James sauntered over into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. "So what if I do? Would that be a problem?"

John paused a moment, thinking about it. "I suppose not," he finally admitted. "Although I must admit that I doubt it would do anything for me. To find an apron, of all things, sexually stimulating-"

He was cut off as he heard the clink of the glass next to him and felt James press up against his back. He felt an erection press into his arse, and he gasped at the sudden encroachment. Abruptly, a pair of lips pressed against the back of his neck, and his pulse began to race. A kiss was planted there before the lips moved, and John could feel warm breath next to his ear, caressing the skin. He shivered slightly, pinned between the island and James. "I think you misunderstand," James said softly. John could hear the smile in his voice. "Just take a moment and imagine – you're naked in the kitchen… well, except the apron… and you're already hard for me. And with every movement you make, that light material brushes your aching cock oh so teasingly." Suddenly, John felt James's hands snake their way underneath his apron, stroking across the skin as they travelled up. He gave a small grind against John, and he could hear James's breath hitch for just a second. "But you won't touch yourself. No, you're far too stubborn for that. You'll wait for me patiently, like the good soldier you are, no matter how unbearable it gets. And then I finally arrive, and you can hardly hold in your excitement." With that, James's fingers trailed around John's nipples, inciting a small gasp from him. Finally, James began to knead them, and John let out a low moan as a rush of ecstasy shot through his body to his groin.

"I-is this how it's going to be from now on?" John inquired curiously. Just a couple days ago, he would have never allowed for James to get away with something like this. If their relationship was now going to revolve around spontaneous sex, he needed to know in order to properly brace himself.

Chuckling, James gave a particularly hard grind and replied, "Possibly. Would you be against such a situation?"

John thought as much as he could, given the situation. If they kept it strictly physical, it would keep the relationship as clean as it got. "N-no," he finally answered. He paused a moment and bit back a moan. "But I was trying to make dinner," he objected weakly. Hell, the knife was still in his hand.

One hand moved away from his nipple and trailed down to take the knife from John. A small kiss was pressed into his jaw, and he felt a rough grind shove him into the island once more. "You would try to object like you just did – just as feeble as it was as well – and I would just ignore your complaints." Suddenly, John felt James grab him by the hips and flip him over before pressing up against him once more. Still trapped, John found himself unable to move as James began a slow rhythm of grinding against him. John gasped, his hands flying up and wrapping around James's neck before he let out a low moan. The friction was perfect, and he bucked against James in an attempt to make him move faster. Leaning down, James trailed kisses up John's jawline before whispering in his ear, "Of course, this part would be a bit different, because I would have just slipped my hand up the apron and taken hold of your cock. I would have started off slow and teasing until you were begging me to stroke you harder or suck or anything as long as it was more than _that_. And I, being as attentive as I am, would have obliged." Head tossed back, John let out a low moan as James picked up speed. His hands dug into James's back – when they had moved there, he wasn't sure – as he tried to grab him and drag him closer for more pressure. "Something wrong, John?" James murmured before kissing the pulse point on his neck.

"N-no," John lied, not willing to give in so quickly to begging. If James wanted to hear that, he was going to have to try harder.

"Ah, a fighter," James noted, a hint of amusement in his voice. He gave a hard grind, and John let out a small whimper. "That's alright. I don't need to hear you beg just yet to know what you want." His hands trailed down the apron once more before untying the back. Involuntarily, John bucked up against him as he felt James's mouth latch onto his neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. After a long moment, James pulled away before capturing John's lips in a demanding kiss. John closed his eyes as he felt James's tongue slip into his mouth and explore it slowly and intimately. Moaning into the kiss, John reached down and grabbed James's arse before dragging him closer and fitting their hips together properly. He wanted to wrap his legs around James's waist, but he feared that such a position would force him to lose what wonderful friction he already had. The coil in the bottom of his stomach was wrapped up almost painfully, and John felt himself just on the edge of climax. Breaking the kiss, James murmured, "John, look at me." When John didn't react, he gave a painful grind and repeated, "Look at me!"

"James," John panted out, his eyes opening and looking up at him. His clothes were dishevelled, breathing erratic, hair tousled, and his dark eyes only locked onto John. Slowly, he lowered back down and kissed John gently, licking his bottom lip before teasingly nipping it. John instinctively pressed into the kiss and allowed James to explore as he pleased since their bodies were still moving rhythmically together. The coil in the pit of John's stomach was painfully tight, and he knew that he couldn't take much more of this.

James broke the kiss once more before murmuring, "Come for me, John. I can see you're so close. Just come."

With that, the knot in John's stomach unravelled, and he let out a loud cry as he came in his pants. His vision flashed for a moment, and he wasn't sure if his eyes were open or not. Back arching, he pressed completely into James, who continued grinding against John throughout his orgasm. He barely registered his name in his ear as he came down from the rush and let out a soft groan as he felt his soaked garments start clinging to his skin. He hadn't come in his pants since his younger teen years, and he now remembered why he disliked it immensely. Swallowing, he panted and leaned into James for a long moment. "I need to clean myself up," he finally said.

"Do that," James responded, pulling back.

At first, John wondered if James hadn't come despite everything. And then he watched as James shifted uncomfortably, and he couldn't help but smirk. James was apparently also remembering how awful it was. John chuckled under his breath as he headed into the bedroom and grabbed some new clothes. After that, he slipped into the bathroom, stripped, and cleaned himself off. He opened the door and found James waiting on the other side with some clothes in his hands. Slipping out of the bathroom, he moved to the side to allow James to step in and close the door behind him. John tossed his dirty clothes in the laundry before heading back over to the kitchen in order to finish making his sandwich. Much to his surprise, he found two sandwiches on a plate in the middle of the island. He stared for a long moment, noticing that everything else had been put away, before he grinned and grabbed the plate. Taking a bite, he hummed in satisfaction, and part of him missed Mrs Hudson and how she would randomly cook for 'her boys.' This was just as nice, though.

"Any good?" James inquired as he emerged from the bathroom in a pair of nice trousers and a button-down shirt. Even in "casual" wear, he felt the need to be classy.

"Very good. Thank you," John offered before taking another bite.

James nodded in response before tossing his pants in the hamper as well and hanging up his Westwood suit and tie carefully. Then he trudged into the kitchen and inquired, "Have you moved the scissors?"

"No," John responded. "Why do you need them?"

James pulled on a loose string on his shirt. "I need to cut this before I just flat out rip it off." Opening the drawer, he looked down and hesitated before smiling. "Why, Johnny, I'm flattered!"

"It's 'John.' And why?" John inquired, perplexed. James then pulled up a note – the note he had left ages ago after checking up on John – and John felt his face go red. "So I kept a note? That hardly means anything. I didn't feel like throwing it away."

"Well, what with the trash bin being one whole step away, I can see why," James teased in response. "No reason to be embarrassed, Johnny-boy. You should have told me you were the love letter type. I would have written you more often."

"It's 'John,' _James_," he repeated before letting out a groan. He would never hear the end of this. He was sure of it. "Just let it go. And throw it away while you're at it."

"Issues with my nicknames then?" James inquired, finally addressing John's corrections. "Do you not like them? I could change them, of course. Instead of Johnny-boy, how would you feel about lover-boy?" There was a touch of teasing in his voice, but John knew that he was to be taken seriously at this point.

"How about just John?" he suggested sarcastically.

"No fun. No fun!" James sang out. "Nicknames are my thing, Johnny. They help keep everything light and fun. Think of it as a 'term of endearment' if you will."

Scoffing, John pressed, "You want me to think of it as a way for you to express your fondness for me?"

"That sounds good. Why not? Do that," James responded with a mischievous grin. "So – lover-boy – back to our previous discussion. If you want to be rid of it, you're going to have to throw it away yourself!" With that, he put the note back inside, pulled out the scissors, and cut of the loose string. He then dropped the scissors back in and closed the drawer.

_Lover-boy_. No, that nickname would not do. It made him feel like a teenager, and he hated being treated as anything but his own age. And since James felt determined to keep giving him a nickname, the least John could do was ensure that it wasn't one that made him grimace every time he heard it. "Call me 'Johnny' or 'Johnny-boy' all you want. If you call me 'lover-boy' again, though, I might have to punch you."

"Very well, Johnny. It's good to know that you finally appreciate my nicknames for you," James goaded as he headed over to the living room. "I'm staying the night," he suddenly declared before promptly flopping onto the chair.

"Something wrong with your primary flat?" John inquired curiously before sauntering over as well.

"No," James answered curtly.

John waited for an explanation but none seemed forthcoming. Clearly, he wasn't going to be allowed into the deeper thoughts of James Moriarty this time around, so he sat down on the sofa and watched as channel after channel passed by. Suddenly, he noticed a flash of _E.T._ and instinctively said, "Wait, go back!"

"What?" James inquired, flipping back a couple of channels. He stopped on _E.T._, and John smiled softly.

"I never thought that they would be playing this on the telly. Not after all these years."

"They're apparently doing a throwback to the 80s," James commented, motioning to the corner of the screen, where a stylized logo that said "80s movie marathon" was. He watched it for a moment before asking, "What is this movie?"

Baffled, John turned and exclaimed, "You have to be joking, right?" When James just stared at him in confusion, he continued, "How have you not seen this movie? Forget that – how did you make it so long without at least knowing this movie existed? This was my favourite movie when it came out. Hell, it was all of my friends' favourite! We used to watch it when staying at each other's houses."

"Seriously?" James asked, obviously baffled. "You watched this garbage?"

John was offended. "Garbage?" he echoed, standing up. "_Garbage_. I cannot even understand how on Earth you can say that since you haven't even seen it." With that, he snatched the remote from James's hand. "We're watching this." His voice was strong and determined, conveying that there was no negotiating. "Saying you haven't seen _E.T._ is like saying you haven't seen the original _Star Wars_ trilogy." James looked at him strangely, and John's eyes widened in realisation. "Oh, no. How deprived were you while growing up?"

"Hardly," James responded earnestly. "I just wasn't interested in such… tedious entertainment. It hardly stimulates the brain."

Scoffing, John shook his head. "Not everything is about obtaining knowledge, you know. Sometimes you just need to let your brain turn off and enjoy something for what it is."

"Impossible," James scoffed, glaring at the telly. "Just like that _alien_being able to survive on Earth. What's the probability that our atmosphere isn't toxic to it? That our gravity isn't too strong for its frankly fragile-looking body? Or not strong enough? That it actually comes in peace? Because I will contest until my dying breath that if any form of extra-terrestrial life has the technology to come to Earth, they would only be coming here to dominate us."

"_You_ believe in aliens?" John clarified, finding this all incredibly amusing.

James looked at John as if he was an idiot. "Do you know what the probability of Earth being the only planet with life in the entire universe is?" he pressed. "Miniscule. To say such an occurrence is improbable is a gross understatement." John laughed as he heard this. "What?" James snapped.

"I just never took you as a believer," John responded honestly, still laughing.

Rolling his eyes, James reclined in his chair and huffed. "You misunderstand still. I'm not saying that aliens are walking among us or helped build Stonehenge or that the Americans have an alien spacecraft hidden in Area 51 – but that's only because I happen to know what's in Area 51, and trust me when I say that it's nothing nearly as interesting. What I am saying is that somewhere in the universe there has to be life."

John nodded his head in acknowledgement. Although he had stopped laughing, he still couldn't get the grin off his face. "So tell me then – what did you watch on the telly as a young boy?"

"On the rare occasion that I actually watched telly, I mostly watched documentaries. That is, I did until scientific forensics reality shows started coming out. I took a particular shining to those."

Mouth agape, John just stared at James for a long moment. "Alright, this has to change. We're watching the entire original trilogy of _Star Wars_. Happen to have seen the Bond movies?" James shook his head. Just like Sherlock then, which hardly surprised him. They were similar even if they didn't want to admit it. Luckily, John was more than willing to watch those movies again in order to "educate" James in pop culture. "We're watching those as well then. Hell, we're making a weekend out of this. I'll make a list of movies you have to buy."

"But why?"

"Because it's fun," John stated. "Just – look – let's just watch _E.T._ And instead of analysing every little thing that happens, why don't you just sit back and watch it. Don't judge or critique or scrutinise. Just accept everything for what it is and immerse yourself into the cinematic experience."

James rolled his eyes and shook his head. "This is just going to be a waste of time."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy!" John warned with a grin. He jumped up and headed into the pantry to grab a bag of popcorn. After preparing it, he plopped back down on the sofa and motioned for James to join him. "Every movie needs popcorn," he explained, motioning towards the bag.

With a sigh, James heaved himself up before flopping down next to John. Almost immediately, his hand was in the bag, and he munched on some popcorn as they continued to watch the movie. John filled him in on any pertinent information that they already missed so that James knew what was going on. Much to John's surprise, James never spoke during the movie – never once commented about the poor graphic effects or criticised the plot like Sherlock would have. Instead, he sat there, eating popcorn and listening quietly whenever John spoke. Their hands brushed once or twice while reaching for the popcorn; however, neither of them ever retracted his hand and always navigated around the other accordingly. John couldn't help but notice the spark of energy that shot down his arm every time it happened, and he always felt jittery for a few minutes after the contact. It was a strange, somewhat unwelcomed feeling. Just over an hour later, the credits started to roll. John picked up the empty popcorn bowl and took it back to the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I thought of it?" James inquired.

Laughing, John responded, "I'm not entirely sure if I want to know." James huffed as he heard this, slumping into the sofa. After a moment of silence, he inquired, "What did you think of it?"

"Considering when it was made, it's wasn't unbearable," James told him as he twisted around on the sofa to face him again. "I still don't see why it was your favourite movie as a child, but perhaps your tastes have refined themselves over the years."

John paused a moment before pressing, "I suppose that means that you're not against having a movie marathon with me then?"

"No, not against," James conceded. "Not for it either. I don't understand why you would want me to waste an entire weekend, sitting on the sofa and watching implausible situations and unrealistic physics on the telly."

John responded, "Because it's a part of pop culture! I'm not saying memorise everything, but you should have at least seen some of these movies once."

"It's a waste of my time."

Scowling, John shot back, "What isn't a waste of your time?"

"Anything that stimulates my brain," James informed him.

"Then why are you here with me?"

James blinked a few times, gauging John. "You know why," he stated.

"For the sex?" John countered.

James scoffed. "If it was just about sex, I would have been able to get that anywhere. That's just a bonus." Staring John in the eyes, he said, "I do not consider this a waste of my time. You can put two and two together. You're smart enough to do at least that."

So John was mentally stimulating for James. But why? He was hardly interesting. Definitely not as interesting as Sherlock or Mycroft. So what did James see in him that was so peculiar? That was so bloody stimulating? "By your logic then, watching movies with _me_ should still be stimulating," he countered. "Spending time with me is stimulating, so it shouldn't matter what we're doing during that time. Sex or watching telly or reading the bloody paper. It should all be stimulating. Am I wrong?"

James smirked slightly as he heard this, clearly amused. "And you wonder why you're so stimulating to me," he noted with an air of amusement.

"I never said-" John started to object.

Raising up a hand to cut him off, James replied, "You didn't have to. It was written all over your face." He then paused a moment. "I'll agree to one movie. If I find it too dull, we move on with life. No pouting. No arguing. Probably a bit of sex, though." He winked at John, who ignored it.

"You have to give it at least an hour," John stipulated.

James paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Fine," he finally said. His gaze flickered behind John for just a moment. "Look at the time. Come. Let's go to bed."

Rolling his eyes, John called out teasingly, "Yes, mother."


	9. White King to H1, Black Pawn to D5

The next morning, John awoke to find the space next to him empty and a note on the nightstand that read: _I could have blown up the entire street, and you wouldn't have woken up. Might try it sometime just to prove a point. –JM_

Letting out a soft chuckle, John took the note and put it with the other one before making breakfast and puttering about the house a bit more. Part of him wondered if he could convince James to take him out to the park again. Or just out somewhere. Anywhere. Even if he couldn't get out again, he made a promise to himself that after the month was over, he was going to spend at least the next two months going outside every day in order to enjoy the freedom of doing so. His day went on as normal until around noon. Just as he was preparing to make lunch, he heard a crash down the hall. He froze, listening carefully as two people thundered down the hall, stopping in front of John's door and pounding on it. He tensed, reaching down and grabbing a kitchen knife, as waited to see if it was just the drunks again. When he heard a kick to the door, he realised that it wasn't. John shifted silently to the side, debating if he should place a piece of furniture between him and the people breaking in or if he should get the first jump as soon as the door opened. In a split second, his soldier side decided to get the first jump. He leapt over to the door and slid to the side of it. A moment later, the door burst open, pieces of wood breaking off into the flat. In a second, John rounded the door, grabbed the nearest man to him and yanked him forward. He pinned the man's arm behind his back and pressed the knife into the man's neck.

"Boss, wait!" the man exclaimed, taking John off guard and making him hesitate. "We're here to protect you. We made a terrible mistake."

"Boss?" John echoed before he felt realisation wash over him. "I'm not your boss."

The man in front of him let out a groan. "Sir, we know it's you. We asked your driver where you've been staying lately. Please, sir, this is important."

"I'm _not_ James Moriarty," John reiterated before looking at the other man to see why he hadn't tried to free his buddy yet. He noticed that the man held a hand to his side and that his shirt was stained dark. "You're injured." As the doctor side took over once more, he pulled away from the first man in order to inspect it better. The shirt was ripped as well – so knife – and going from how much blood there was, it was most likely a stab wound as opposed to a simple scrape. Now this had just become remarkably interesting. "Come inside, both of you. Tell me what happened."

The men hesitantly stepped into the flat as John headed over to grab the first aid kit. Honestly, he used this thing less when he lived with Sherlock. The injured man sat down at the table, letting out a low groan as he did so. Meanwhile, the other one began to explain, "We were doing the job you gave us-"

"For the last bloody time, I'm _not_ James Moriarty! I'm not your boss, okay?"

"Then what are you doing in the boss's flat?" the injured man countered.

John brought the kit over and responded, "That's above your pay grade, let me assure you."

"Right," the other man murmured, sizing John up. "Well, what we're about to tell you is probably above your pay grade as well. We really should only be telling the boss this. Happen to know where he is?"

"I assume he's working," John responded with a bit of a bite to his voice. He pulled away the shirt and said, "And you should tell me what happened so I know how to properly treat the wound. Was the blade sharp? Dull? Did it break in the wound? Do you know if it was poisoned? How were you stabbed? Was it a precise movement? Or by accident?"

"We-" the injured man began.

The other man cut him off, "Don't!"

"It's not your life on the line right now!" the injured man countered before wincing as John began to clean up some of the blood. "We were supposed to rough up this guy. You know, just to make sure he didn't pursue his custodial rights. What we didn't know was that the woman had been running her mouth about the fact that she had found a solution. Nor did we know that this guy works for the Russian cartel that's been invading our territory for the last couple of months. So he and his buddy were ready for me when I dragged him into an alleyway. We had a small scuffle – I knocked his buddy out, I will have you know – before he managed to lodge my own knife into my side."

"And what happened to the knife?" John pressed as he examined the wound. Clean. Deeper than he would like. Assuming nothing vital was hit, which appeared to be the case, he would just need some stitches and time off.

"Yanked it out myself once the bloke had run off. But he managed to get the boss's instructions from me."

"And we should have never written them down in the first place!" the other man snarled angrily. "Now that cartel has Moriarty's name as the person behind the attack. They're bound to come after him now. That's why we're trying to find him first."

John nodded in acknowledgement as he began to bind the wound. "Why not just send him a text or an email? Or send the message through the higher ups until it reaches him?"

"You think we have such direct ways of contacting him?" the injured man let out with a laugh. "And as if we can trust any of the higher ups. They might be spies. Or worse, they might twist the tale in order to make themselves look better or to gain favour with him."

"We have got to be the ones that tell him," the other man affirmed.

"Tell me what?" a dark voice boomed out.

Jerking around, John looked over to see James Moriarty standing in the doorway. Their eyes met, and James started carefully looking down John's body. After a moment, John realised he was looking for any wounds. He rose to his feet slowly and spread his arms just a tad, showing that he was unharmed. It was then that someone else stepped into the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong build, muscular, dirty blond hair, and piercing green eyes. It took him a moment before he realised that he recognised the man. "Colonel Moran?" The last time he had seen Moran had been in Afghanistan on the battlefield. John got shot through the shoulder while saving his life.

"Captain Watson," he acknowledged, giving a small bow of his head.

"Boss?" the injured man inquired, staring with wide eyes. John was sure that James Moriarty looked nothing like the man thought he would – small, lean, agile, and rather unremarkable in appearance besides his expensive suit. When James's eyes locked onto the injured man, they narrowed. So he had seen it as well – the judgment that the injured man had for the great criminal mastermind – and it had changed him completely. This was Moriarty they were dealing with now.

Luckily, the other man managed to keep his thoughts to himself by not visibly showing them. "Boss, we're here to warn you-" he started to say.

"That you've botched up the simple mugging that I set up for you imbeciles? Yes, I've already heard. Luckily for you, I planned ahead for such an occurrence. Now what I want to know is how you found this place?" Moriarty countered, stepping into the room.

"B-but sir, the Russians-" the man started again.

"I'll deal with the Russians later. They are not my concern right now. Tell me – how did you locate this place? Who told you about it?" he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls.

John remained frozen. In his time here, he had forgotten just how terrifying Moriarty could be. Just how psychotic and changeable he could be. How could he have forgotten?

"Sir," he tried to continue.

"The name!"

"Robert Davenport, your driver, sir," the injured man cut in. "He's my uncle, sir, and when he heard what happened, he told me where you had been going to most lately. We got ourselves buzzed in and then asked the doorman which room was yours. When no one answered the door, we broke it down."

Blinking a few times, Moriarty glanced back at Moran. "I've been feeling like it's time for a change. It's not as if I'm meeting clients anymore, so I hardly require a driver." Moran nodded and slipped silently away.

Those words triggered in his mind, and John started forward. "You can't be serious," he responded, keeping his voice low. He glanced back at the two men before taking another step towards Moriarty. "He was just trying to keep you safe. That's hardly something you should be killing him over."

"This is none of your business, John," Moriarty bit back, glancing over at him.

"I'll be damned if you honestly think I'm just going to stand there and let you take any one of their lives. They're trying to _protect_ you!"

Moriarty turned on John, towering over him as he glared down angrily. "You think everything so simple, don't you?" he hissed. "But you should know better than anyone that nothing is black and white."

"I'm not saying it is. I'm saying that killing employees who are just trying to help you is wrong in any situation!" John replied earnestly. "You wonder why no one is loyal to you? Perhaps it's because you show no empathy. No mercy."

"I show no weakness," Moriarty countered. "Now silence yourself. This has nothing to do with you, and if you speak again, I will have a punishment doled out for you as well."

"I'm not one of employee of yours!" John countered.

Moriarty snarled, "That's right! You're in an even worse situation than them."

"Sir," Moran called out, having reappeared in the doorway. "It's been taken care of."

"The injured one first," Moriarty ordered, his eyes remaining locked defiantly on John's.

The injured man began to panic. "B-but sir, we-"

"You cannot even handle a simple mugging. You're useless to me. As such, I now terminate your contract with me. Sebastian will show you out," Moriarty stated matter-of-factly.

Moran roughly grabbed the man's arm and pulled him out of the chair while the other man watched in horror. "B-but Boss, I can redeem myself. I swear. This will only be a one-time occurrence. I promise!" the uninjured man cried out desperately as he tried to rip away from Moran's grasp. "Please, sir," he exclaimed, looking at John, "help us!" John started forward only to be shoved backwards by Moriarty. Moran promptly wrapped a hand over the man's mouth at that point and dragged him out of the room.

"James," John objected, turning and shoving Moriarty back in return, "stop this! This is madness!"

"Is it, though?" Moriarty inquired, his eyes shining brightly.

Suddenly, John heard a whirlwind of movement and felt something cold and sharp against his neck as his right arm was pinned behind his back. Adrenaline shot through his system as he realised that he had a knife to his throat – probably the one he had used earlier. "I'm not dying here!" a shrill voice exclaimed, pressing the knife harder into John's neck. Obviously, the uninjured had awoken from his stupefied state and was now planning to fight his way out. "I won't let you kill me!"

Moriarty's expression altered completely to surprise and shock. "Whatever do you mean? You're not going to die. No, not you. You weren't the one who botched up the mission, were you? And I'm sure it was your idea to come warn me. Why would I kill you?"

The man's hold slackened ever so slightly, and John swallowed as his eyes remained locked on Moriarty. "Th-that's right. It was my idea to tell you."

"Besides, I need a new driver now," Moriarty pointed out, smiling softly as he stepped towards them. "You've proven yourself loyal to me. I would be grateful if you were my new driver."

"O-of course, sir," he replied, relaxing even more. "I would be honoured."

Suddenly, John heard a silenced gunshot ring out, and the hand pressed at his neck went slack. The knife clattered to the ground before the body slumped down as well. Turning, John dropped to his knees and instinctively went to check the man's pulse only to see that the shot had been to the man's head. He glanced back to find Moran in the doorway, untwisting his silencer from his pistol. "Are we even now, Watson?"

"Hardly," John bit back. "When you get shot while protecting me, we'll talk." Moran smiled as he heard this, clearly amused. Suddenly, Moriarty stepped towards him and reached out. John glared at him. "Don't touch me!"

Moriarty frowned as he heard the order. "Moran, clean this up and wait for me downstairs."

"Of course, sir."

"John, follow me," Moriarty stated. He began to walk away, and John defiantly remained where he was. "Do not force me to retaliate. I will have Moran _drag_ you if need be." Setting his jaw, John turned on his heels and followed Moriarty into the bedroom and waited for the explanation he was bound to receive. As soon as the door closed behind them, Moriarty's posture changed completely, his shoulders dropping and his weight shifting onto just his left foot. It was reminiscent of James. "I don't expect for you to understand, but this was necessary."

"Why? Because they knew what you looked like?" John countered, staring at Moriarty incredulously.

"Because they risked your life!" Moriarty screamed in response, his eyes wide and brows furrowed together. "Honestly, how can you be so bloody blind to danger when you were a soldier?"

"They posed no threat to me except when you forced their hands!" John retorted.

"They didn't check to see if they were being followed," Moriarty responded angrily. "They were so caught up in the fact that they _fucked up_ that they didn't think to check to make sure no one was behind them. By coming here, they were leading whoever was tailing them directly to you."

John responded, "Assuming there was someone following them. And how can you be sure that they didn't check?"

"Because they were idiots, that's why," Moriarty snapped back. John frowned as he heard this, not necessarily able to argue that point. Even so, that didn't mean that they deserved to be killed. He had worked with plenty of idiots while in the army, but they were loyal idiots, and that's what mattered in the end. "And because when I pulled up, I noticed the people who had been tailing them snooping around. I'm not idiot, John. _I_ know what a tail looks like."

Shaking his head, John said, "So you're putting their spilt blood on my hands? No. I won't have it. You can keep that guilt on your own conscience. Don't try to put it on me."

"I just want you to understand _why_ they had to die. Besides the fact that they botched up a simple mugging, they revealed your location to a known enemy, which means that they lack the common sense to work for me. They were also known to the enemy and had seen my face. If the enemy got their hands on them, there is a strong probability that they would have given me up. After all, they aren't trained in counter-torture techniques like some," he explained. "And let's not forget that one of them had a knife to your throat. He could have tried to escape first. We were both too wrapped up in our argument to have been in a position to stop him. Of course, it would have been futile in the end, but it was still an option. Instead, he grabbed a knife and held it to your throat, fully prepared to kill you if he had to."

Shaking his head, John said, "But killing them?"

"What would you have me do, John? I'm not like Sherlock. I don't watch things happen and then react. I make things happen. I act before a reaction is necessary. Hell, do you even know their names?"

Taken aback, John paused a moment as he thought back. Neither of them had introduced themselves, and they had mentioned the driver's name in passing, but John couldn't recall it anymore. Reluctantly, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "I can't do this right now," he finally confessed. Part of him felt like Moriarty had a point with everything he was saying, but he just couldn't accept it when everything was still so fresh. "This is too much. I just watched a man die and know that two others lost their lives not too far from this very flat. If you think I'm just going to tell you that what you did was alright and revert to how we were before, you're wrong. You have to let me process this."

"Very well. Process it as you pack."

"Pack?" John echoed, his eyes widening.

Baffled, Moriarty replied, "Yes, pack. You think you're going to stay here with the front door busted in? Leaves my countermeasure of having an alarm rather useless, don't you think? I'm moving you to another flat."

"I don't want to go to another flat," John countered, noting that he was being childish, all things considered. But he didn't want to move again. This flat had become somewhat of a home for him. He felt comfortable in this place now, and he didn't want to have to reacquaint himself to a new living environment. "Post Moran at the door if you have to in order to feel better."

"My sniper doesn't have the time to babysit you."

John responded sharply, "Then find someone who does, because I happen to like it here, okay?" He blinked in surprise as soon as the words passed his lips, and he shifted somewhat awkwardly. "Look, I know I'm in no position to make demands, but I'm sure you can get a door replaced in no time. Probably while I'm sleeping, too. And it's not like I'm about to renege on my promise now and try to escape. Not after all this time."

Moriarty's jaw remained set for a long moment, and neither of them said a word. Eventually, he exhaled loudly and shook his head. "I'll have the door fixed by the end of the day. Until then, you will remain inside this room. I'll give Sebastian the orders to subdue you by any means necessary should you leave it without permission. Am I understood?"

"Completely," John replied, willing to negotiate at this point. He was lucky enough to have made it through this without getting maimed in some way, shape, or form. He wasn't about to push his luck.

Giving him a terse nod, Moriarty started towards the bedroom door before turning around to look at him again. "And might I add, if you _ever _undermine me in front of my employees like that again, you will not be walking away unscathed. I will not have you challenging my authority in these manners, especially since you do not understand the gravity of the situation. Believe it or not, John, I do not enjoy using excessive force." He looked like he was about to add a final point to that statement only to stop himself. Pressing his lips together, he stared John directly in the eyes. "And realise just how lucky you are that you were not the victim of my retaliation as well. Remember your place, John. You're my captive, not my boyfriend."

Those words stung as John watched Moriarty leave the room. Blinking, he stepped back and sat down on the bed behind him. He was mystified. That had actually _hurt_, of all things. And it had hurt because it was true. John meant nothing to James Moriarty – just a good fuck whenever needed. But _why_ did that bother him? Wasn't it supposed to be the same for him? It was supposed to be an unattached relationship that ended cleanly once the month was over. Of course, who was he kidding? He had known he would get attached once they started being intimate. It should hardly be a surprise, after all. Despite his "trust issues," John was really searching for someone – besides Sherlock – that he could openly share his life with. What had he expected with Moriarty, though? That Moriarty would see something special in him and become emotionally invested? That Moriarty would never want to let him go? That Moriarty would actually fall in love with him? It was all incredibly laughable, now that John was seriously thinking about it, and yet that didn't help the sting he felt.

And then horror rushed through his veins. Did he actually _want_ James Moriarty to keep him? Because that would be the only way for the two of them to remain together. He would have to remain locked up in some flat somewhere, waiting for James to come around. Then he really would be like a pet, and John hated the notion altogether. He wanted to be on equal footing with James, not underneath him. So he decided against that. He wanted James to keep their relationship alive no matter where John happened to live, but he didn't want to be forced to remain in a flat 24/7. Because in the end, he needed to get out and interact with other people as well. He needed to see his old friends again and hear Mrs Hudson go on and on about society nowadays. There was just a part of him that wanted to integrate James Moriarty into his life, no matter how impossible that seemed to be.

Was he in love then? In love with James Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal? The man who had just taken the lives of three men who had been trying to help him? The man who had strapped a bomb to his chest? The thought had crossed his mind before only to be dismissed immediately. After all, John knew he would become attached – as he always became attached to people even if it started out only as booty calls – but attachment was something very different than love. Romantic love. Attachment was like coming over to check on Sarah whenever she got sick. Attachment was taking someone out to dinner in order to cheer them up. Attachment was simple and clean. Love, on the other hand, was finicky and messy. Love wasn't so easy to control or get rid of. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. It wasn't possible. He wouldn't accept that answer. He _couldn't_ accept it. He was most definitely _not_ in love with James Moriarty. No, this – this hurt – it was due to something else. Anything else. But not love. It could never be love.

With that, John rose to his feet and began to pace around the room. Even if it was love – and he wasn't confessing that it was just yet – what would it really matter? He doubted that Moriarty was capable of returning such emotions anyway. In the end, he would be sent back to 221B Baker Street, and life would go on as if he had never been away. As if James Moriarty had never happened. If he were in love – he still wasn't admitting that he was – John's heart would heal over time. It had before when it came to a number of his previous girlfriends whom he had thought he genuinely loved. What he felt for James Moriarty was, if anything, a simple infatuation brought on by a very peculiar situation. More like a crush than actual love. It was something that would go away eventually, given time and space. Something that wouldn't be so painful when the month came to an end. Something John wouldn't be overtly upset about or, God forbid, cry about. It was nothing more than a crush, he repeated to himself. That decision only comforted John a little as he reran those final words through his head… the sting of truth still stabbing his heart.

"Ah, bugger," John hissed, glaring at the door as if it had something to do with it all. "Bloody fucking Hell."

Because in that moment, John realised that he had fallen in love.


	10. Midgame

As promised, the door was fixed by the end of the day. John was released from confinement and left alone for the rest of the day. And the day after. Part of him was relieved for the reprieve. After all, he still needed to sort through all of his emotions and thoughts properly, and it was much better for him to be able to do that alone. He decided at the end of the full day alone that he would simply never say a word of it to anyone. How would James react to hearing such news anyway? He would probably either ridicule John or use it to his advantage. Either way, John wasn't about to find out. Once the month was over, he would assess the damage, fix his heart however needed, and move on with life. It wasn't truly a satisfactory solution, but he doubted that he and James would be intimate anytime soon due to their previous argument.

It was mid-afternoon when John heard a rapping on the door. He found it strange since James never knocked before entering. Then he heard a key in the lock, and he tensed up, glancing about for a weapon of any kind. The door swung open, and Moran stepped into the flat. "Watson," he greeted, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Moran," John responded, surprised to see him. Moriarty probably sent him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I thought I would pop in and check up on you. We haven't seen each other since _that_ day, and I recall owing you a debt of sorts. So if there ever comes a time in which you need my services – and it is something plausible for me to do – you can count on me. I'll leave you my contact information before I go," he responded. Suddenly, he held up a case of beer. "Want one?"

"Oh, God, yes." Although he was far from the alcoholic that his sister had become, John hadn't had a beer in far too long. It would be nice to drink something other than milk, water, or juice for once. Since he had started requesting it, he never got beer no matter how many times he placed it on the grocery list. At one point, he almost wrote down scotch or whiskey in order to see if he got a different response. Perhaps Moriarty thought beer was too uncultured for someone to drink and, therefore, would not purchase it. In any case, it remained a mystery to John, who wound up giving up in the end.

Grinning, Moran shut the door behind him and set the case onto the counter. "Part of me wanted to see if you had even made it the night. I've never seen a person rebel against the boss like that and live to tell the tale."

"Well, I'm not the kind of man to just sit on command," John responded as Moran handed him a beer. "If I think something is morally wrong, I have no problem with calling it out."

Smirking, Moran cracked open his beer and commented, "I still remember the chewing out you were giving me on the field as you worked on me. Telling me what an idiot I was to be a sniper and still get shot. Explaining to me how I was going to get home no matter what, but I had to stop bleeding out first. Reassuring me that you wouldn't let me die out there if only because you were sworn not to. I never thought nearly dying would be so entertaining, you know. And that was right before… well… you know." He made a vague motion towards his upper torso, but John understood immediately.

"How is your chest, by the way?"

"Fine. I got a tiger tattooed over the scar so no one can see it anymore. Care to have a look?"

Shrugging, John responded, "Yeah. Why not?"

Moran set his drink down and pulled his shirt off. Snarling, the tiger stretched from his hipbone – where its tail ended – to his shoulder – where its claws appeared to dig into the flesh. Between the orange, black, and white of the tattoo, the scar was well-hidden. "Took quite some time to get it done, but I'm satisfied with the end product."

"Did it hurt?" John inquired.

"No. After you get shot, though, not much tends to hurt you too badly. You know?" Moran responded, giving a small shrug. He pulled his shirt back on and picked up his beer once more. "You have a tattoo, too, don't you?"

"Royal Army Medical Corps symbol," John responded, lowering the jumper so Moran could see the logo. It was located on the skin above his right deltoid muscle. "Hurt when I got it done, to be honest. I feel now, though, that I could get another one without complaining as much as I did back then."

Grinning, Moran took a swig of his beer. "So how has life been under the thumb of the great Moriarty?" he inquired teasingly. "Feel like you're back in the war again yet?"

"It seems to always be one battle after another with him, but at least there haven't been any bombings yet," John jested.

Moran laughed as he heard this. "'Yet' being the keyword in that sentence," he noted, leaning against the island. "He put you up in a nice place, though. Nicer than most of our hostages get."

"Well, he only gets me for a month before he has to return me alive. I'm sure the other hostages don't have such an ideal situation," John pointed out before taking a drink. He never remembered beer tasting so good before in his life. "God, that's great. Thank you for bringing it."

"Think of it as a peace offering," Moran responded. "I could tell that you were a bit on edge after everything that happened. Probably had a couple of nightmares, am I wrong?" John went rigid and started examining Moran critically. His nightmares had returned the first night after the incident but tapered off the second. In any case, he didn't want to talk about it to anyone, and especially not to someone who reported back to Moriarty. He wouldn't allow himself to be seen as weak. Sensing John's hesitance, Moran raised his hands and said, "It was merely an assumption, mate. I know what it used to be like for me is all. Thought maybe you would appreciate someone who understands."

"I appreciate your concern," John responded, his voice tight, "but it's unneeded. I'm perfectly fine."

Nodding, Moran replied, "Good to know."

Both of them took a drink, and the room remained awkwardly quiet for a long moment. In order to break the silence, John asked, "So how _did_ you come to work for James Moriarty?"

"I don't believe I can really give you too many details. He would probably kill me if I did so. Let's just say – he approached me with a job opportunity, and I wasn't exactly in a position to turn him down. Came to realise that I enjoyed working for him for various reasons, I assure you, and now here I am."

"Standing in a kitchen with one of his hostages," John jestingly noted, lifting his beer. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Moran responded with a smile on his face. Both of them took another drink. "So how did you manage to get yourself into Moriarty's sights?"

"What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Moran replied nonchalantly, "I've just never seen him take such a shining to a hostage before. And then there is the fact that he has you, of all people, in his grasp… I mean… I know you well enough, Watson. You're dedicated and loyal – noteworthy to the people who know you, but not at all what you seem. I am sure that he realised this, and I thought there might be something being kept under wraps. That's all." He was trying to downplay the situation and his interest in it, that much John could see. But it was also obvious that he was curious – that there was something about this relationship that was different from normal.

Then again, John doubted that shagging a hostage was a normal situation. "Surely you know about my ties with Sherlock Holmes."

"I do."

"That's all there is to it, really. The only reason he ever felt the need to kidnap me was to throw it in the Holmes' faces. Other than that, I'm still regular, boring John Watson."

Laughing, Moran responded, "I assure you that James Moriarty would never take such an interest in an ordinary bloke. There has to be something."

"There's nothing." John's tone was sharp, much like the one he would use in the military. This wasn't up for discussion any longer. By no means was he going to let Moran know about what had conspired between James and himself.

Moran remained unfazed. "If you insist," he conceded after a moment's pause. "I suppose it isn't that important anyway. After all, if the boss wanted me to know about it then I would know." Rapping his fingers on the island, he looked over at John for another long moment, as if he was still trying to figure everything out. John stared at him defiantly, wanting nothing more than to convey that he would not be giving Moran any answers. Suddenly, Moran's eyes flickered, and he set his beer down. "How's your shoulder been?"

"All things considered? Fine," John responded curtly. He didn't like talking about his shoulder, but he knew this conversation was bound to come up. After all, he had been shot while trying to save Moran's life.

Moran shifted ever so slightly. "Does it act up at all? I know mine does every now and again."

"Sometimes."

"Still play rugby?" Moran inquired after a moment's pause.

"Not anymore. I can't throw like I used to. Can't take a good hit to that shoulder anymore either," John explained calmly. He had played recreationally while over in Afghanistan. Once, he and Moran had played together and made a rather formidable pair. It was the best game John had ever played in his life, to be perfectly honest, and he still thought back on it fondly.

"That's a shame."

Shrugging, John responded, "Not much I can do about it, though."

"Look, I've been making quite a bit of money. I thought – well, what with it being my fault and all, that maybe I could…"

"Stop," John demanded sharply, irritated. "I'm not looking for pity or for you to pay back a perceived debt. We both knew what we were getting into when we enlisted. We both knew that we might die out there. And guess what – we both survived. Maimed, yes, but we made it out of that Hell-hole." He realised then that he had his hands clenched and was standing rigid. Forcing himself to relax, he shook his head and continued softly, "It's not your fault I got shot. I've never once thought it was your fault I got shot. So stop trying to repay a debt that you don't owe!"

Moran remained silent for a long moment, staring at John as if he was trying to understand him. "Very well," he finally said before opening a second beer. "Want another?"

"Yes, please."

Handing John the beer he just opened, Moran reached into the carton and grabbed himself another one. "One of the first things I did after coming back was go to a pub to get a good pint of beer."

"Restaurant," John responded, smiling. "To remember what _real_ food tasted like for once."

Letting out a groan, Moran complained, "God, the food over there was awful. Simply awful. I might miss a lot of things, but the food is most definitely not one of them."

"You know what I don't miss?" John prompted, hopping up onto the island. "Tommy Thornton. Were you ever subjected to that man?"

"Subjected to him?" Moran scoffed. "He was in my bloody brigade! The only bright side to being shot was the fact that I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore."

With that, John burst out laughing. Tommy Thornton had been a pain in everyone's arses. On good days, he would stay hunkered in his room. On bad days, he was out and about, determined to rain on everyone's parade, whether it be talking down someone's political views or going on and on about how hard his life was. "That's too rich!" he managed to say. "He used to talk all the time about how he was the best rugby player on his team back home. Hell, this bloke didn't even know half the rules for rugby. So I told him that he should play with us sometime, right? Well, then he started going on and on about how he doesn't really play anymore because it's not much fun for him. There was no challenge there, you see. And he had seen us play before, and – although he didn't want to hurt my feelings – he had to be perfectly honest and inform me that he was just too far out of our league to really want to play with us."

"He was always going on about how great he was. He claimed he was a better sniper than me once. _Once,_" Moran emphasized before taking a swig of beer.

Eyes widening, John prompted, "No, that deserves a story. C'mon. Tell me. What did you do? It's not like you're going to be discharged for it anymore."

And thus, Moran told Watson about how he challenged Thornton to a sniping competition. He won 10-3, and Thornton never said another word about his sniping capabilities without that being thrown back into his face. After hearing this, John went into a story about the prankster of his brigade – Weldon was his name. One of his most notorious jokes was when an unsuspecting soldier would get his towel snatched up while taking a shower. Weldon's defence was always, "Well, if he isn't alert enough to notice someone stealing his towel then he doesn't deserve to have one." That particular prank stopped, however, when Weldon accidentally stole the wrong towel and upset a major instead of a second lieutenant. That prompted Moran to tell a story of his own about a prank, which he had pulled in his younger years on some of the other officer cadets. In the middle of the night, he slipped around and reset all of their clocks three hours ahead. All of their alarms went off, and each of them sprang out of bed, got dressed, made their bed, and remained standing for a good fifteen minutes before realising something was wrong. John was honestly surprised Moran walked away from that one alive.

And so, the stories went back and forth, one after another, as they sipped their beers. Ironically enough, it felt to John as if he was speaking to an old friend. Hours ticked by, and it was dinnertime before either of them even knew it. "Would you like something to eat?" he offered. "I'm a decent cook. At the very least, it will be better than anything we ate over there."

Just as Moran was about to answer, his mobile phone started ringing. John frowned, knowing that there was probably only one person who would be calling Moran around this time of night. Pulling up his phone, Moran stared at it for a moment. His face went expressionless, signalling to John that he had gotten an order that he needed to remain unknown. "Could you do me a favour, Watson?"

"Rain check?" John suggested.

"Yes, that. But I need you to have your rucksack packed tonight. Just in case."

At hearing this, John became worried. "What's going on?"

"As of yet, nothing," Moran responded, swinging around and grabbing his jacket. "It's merely a precaution." Without another word, he exited the flat and locked the door behind him. John was left standing in the kitchen, not knowing what just happened but having a bad feeling about it nonetheless. Immediately, he turned and headed into his bedroom. After all, he had some packing to do.

John had been tossing and turning most of the night, wondering when this "just in case" scenario might happen. Finally, he had relaxed enough to drift to sleep. And then he heard the front door burst open and his last name shouted out. Instinctively, he leapt from his bed and checked the clock. 2:28 AM. Before Moran even made it to the bedroom, John had his rucksack slung over his shoulder. Moran took it immediately, practically ripping it off as he shoved John out the door.

"Shoes-!" John started to object, wanting to put on the pair he left out.

"No time! Move!" Moran ordered with another shove.

Staggering out of the flat, John glanced back one last time before running down the hallway alongside Moran. They burst into the stairwell, flying down the five flights of stairs. All the while, Moran was yelling at John to move faster – don't have much time – need to get out – have to go. Heart in his throat, John reached the bottom step and bolted out the door. They sprinted across the lobby, John tailing Moran perfectly, and wound up knocking the doorman out of the way in the process.

John was just a step away from the street when a loud explosion filled his ears. He was promptly shoved to the ground by an invisible force, scraping his hands and cracking his knees into the ground. However, the pain didn't register as the adrenaline continued to pump through his system. His body was screaming at him to run, and yet he couldn't orient himself well enough to obey. Confused, he tried to process everything that happened. He let out a groan and happened to notice the time on his watch. 2:30 AM. Suddenly, two hands gripped the back of his T-shirt, and he was shoved into the back of a vehicle along with his rucksack. Glancing out the window, he looked up to see a large section of the hotel destroyed. Horror iced his blood. Two minutes. He had come two minutes away from dying. And yet there was still that unmistakeable high from surviving that rushed through him and made his body hum with energy. Quickly, Moran slid into the driver's seat and took off down the road.


	11. White Pawn to D5, Black Bishop to F6

John remained mute en route to wherever Moran was taking him. Rubbing his eyes, he realised that he was trembling. It was shock. There was no other explanation for it, really. After all, it wasn't as if John scared easily. Two minutes. Part of John wished that he hadn't gotten into the habit of wearing his watch to bed – wished he could forget just how close he had come to losing his life. Running his hands through his hair, he let out a long sigh and kept his eyes locked on his knees. He was fine. Alive. That's what mattered. Even so, he couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if Moriarty hadn't figured everything out… if he hadn't sent Moran when he did. Moriarty had undoubtedly saved his life, and it made John re-evaluate their previous argument. At the time, he hadn't actually believed his life to be in danger. He thought Moriarty was being cruel and twisted and nothing more. It almost shamed him to think how quickly he had judged and accused Moriarty without knowing what was actually going on. And now he was going to have to apologise for being quick to condemn if nothing else.

"Watson!" Moran called out sharply, as if he had been trying to get John's attention for a while.

Jerking back to the present, John responded, "What? What is it?"

"We're here," Moran informed him before getting out. John opened the door and staggered onto the sidewalk. Moran promptly yanked John's rucksack out of the boot and slung it over his shoulder. "Close call, eh?" he pointed out nonchalantly as he shut the boot.

"I've had closer."

"Doesn't matter how close you get, really. It feels exhilarating and horrifying every time," Moran responded quietly as he started up the stairs to the building.

Glancing around the street, John found that he was in a part of London that he was unfamiliar with. A diner was across the street from the building with a small café five doors down from that. Other than that, it was as nondescript as it got in London. Moran stopped at the door and hit the doorbell for flat 23. A second later, the door buzzed open, and Moran opened it for John. Slipping inside, John waited before following Moran across the lobby and to the elevator. They stepped inside and went up to the second floor. Heading to room 23, they stopped outside as Moran knocked twice and waited a few seconds before opening the door. He motioned for John to step inside first, and he did. He found himself in a small entryway. To his left was a coat hanger with a couple of jackets up and some shoes resting underneath it. To his right was a small table with a mirror above it. Directly in front of him and about a metre away was a closet and a half of a metre past the table was another door. Suddenly, the door opened, and James Moriarty stepped into the entryway. John was somewhat surprised to find him in a button-down shirt and black trousers at this time of night. Of course, he knew he shouldn't be too shocked. James was a posh gentleman. It was only natural that he wouldn't be seen by Moran in anything less than that.

"John," he called out, his voice soft and yet still demanding. John snapped his head up and locked eyes automatically. "There's something for you to eat and drink in the kitchen. Grab it and go to bed. I'll be there in a second."

John blinked a few times and opened his mouth to object only to find that there was no reason to. It would be good for him to get something into his system. Besides, he wasn't particularly in the mood to fight at that moment anyway. "Where can I locate the kitchen and bedroom?" he finally inquired so he didn't look like an idiot with his mouth bobbing up and down.

"Kitchen is just inside and to the right. You can't miss it. Bedroom is towards the back of the flat – the door to the left," James informed him while motioning towards the door.

John turned back and accepted his rucksack from Moran. After giving a small "thanks," he headed into the flat. It was startling to see just how different this flat was in comparison to the one he used to live in. First of all, it was much more posh than the last flat John had stayed in. For the most part, it was an open floor plan with the kitchen – island included, only this time with an electric stove on it – directly to his right instead of to the left as it had been in his old flat. There was a table in front of the door – just like where he had lived – but with the sofa and two chairs behind the dining area. After another look around, he realised that there were more windows in this flat as well, which would be nice… assuming that he would be staying there. A television was mounted on the back wall not too far from another door on the left, which John now knew led to the bedroom. There was a door to the right, and he assumed that it led to the bathroom. Once he had taken it in the first time, he noticed there was a glass of water and a plate with a piece of toast covered in jam on the kitchen island. He let out a soft chuckle as he saw it – God knows he requested enough jam during his stay at the other flat to last anyone else a lifetime. Dropping his bag next to the island, he picked up the glass and plate before heading back to the bedroom. He could investigate more tomorrow.

Heading into the bedroom, John noticed the closet to the right. A dresser sat right next to the door, and the bed rested to the left of the entrance and pressed against the back wall. John slid over and sat down on the bed, which sank under his weight. Slowly, he ate his toast, which he came to realise had his favourite jam on it, and drank the water. By the time he was done, his adrenaline had worn off, and he was left feeling incredibly tired. He suddenly heard a door open and close, and he listened carefully as a set of footsteps approached the bedroom. Gently, he set the plate and glass on the nightstand and turned to find James walking into the room.

"I apologise," John said quickly, wanting to get that out before he talked himself out of it. "I'm still not entirely sure that those three men had to die, but I understand more now that you didn't do it because you _wanted_ to but because you _had_ to. I shouldn't have been so fast to condemn you for your actions, especially since I didn't have all of the information."

James blinked in surprise and examined John carefully. It almost appeared as if James had never been apologised to before. Or, at least, never sincerely – _probably just while they were begging for their lives,_John thought cynically. Quickly shoving those opinions to the back of his mind, John waited patiently for a response. However, the one he got wasn't the one he expected.

"How close?"

"Sorry?" John inquired, not following.

Not missing a beat, James clarified, "How close did you come to dying?"

"Oh," John murmured, shifting uncomfortably under James's gaze. "I figured you would have asked Moran that question."

"There's a high probability that Moran lied to me when I did. Now I won't repeat this again – how close was it?"

"Two minutes. But what does that matter?" John replied.

"It just does," James responded dismissively. Another long pause passed through the two of them. "Is this how you felt?"

Letting out a frustrated sigh, John pressed, "I can't read minds, you know. I don't know what you're talking about."

"The night that I was almost shot," James replied with a sigh as he slowly sauntered towards John. "Is this how you felt? Is that why you kissed me then? Why you finally gave yourself over to me?"

John shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know what you're feeling right now, so I can't really say. I suppose that it probably is, though."

Sliding down on to the bed, James gently shoved John down as loomed over him. "I almost lost you," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I almost lost my own life," John pointed out, his heart starting to race in his chest.

James made a face before straddling John and pinning him to the bed. "Do you understand now, though? Why it had to be done? They knew too much. They were putting _you_ in danger."

"And why does that matter to you?" John countered softly as James placed his hands on either side of his head in order to brace himself. "It didn't put you in danger, after all."

Smirking, James responded, "Because I don't like people touching my things."

"I'm not-" John started to object.

"But you are, John," James stated, cutting him off. "You are, whether you believe it or not right now. Whether you can accept it or not. You'll come to understand. Just like you did with your feelings for me. It'll only take a bit of time before you realise that what I say is true."

John rolled his eyes. "As always, you're one for the dramatics. But I'm never going to be _yours_. I'm never going to be owned by you. I'm not the kind of person who can allow that. We're either equals or nothing at all."

James scowled as he heard this, but he sank low and gently kissed John on the lips. John made sure to keep it chaste even when James gently sucked and nipped at his bottom lip, practically begging for entrance into his mouth. He had a point to make – he wasn't just going to cow down to James Moriarty. With a growl, James pulled back before lowering and locking onto John's neck. John gasped and bucked involuntarily, his cock trying to find some form of friction, as he felt James's teeth scrape against his Adam's apple. He was already half-hard from this alone, and he put it up to the fact that he had almost died that night. Breath hitching, he craned his head back to give James better access to his throat.

James chuckled, his lips vibrating against the skin. "I knew you would be submissive by nature."

With that, John suddenly rounded on James, flipping him over and pressing him into the mattress. He wouldn't be seen as anything less than an equal, especially in bed. "I'll show you _submissive_," he snapped, his hands ripping James's shirt open. Buttons flew everywhere, but it seemed that neither of them cared at that point. John kissed and nipped down James's neck and chest before taking a nipple into his mouth and teasing it. Immediately, his hands flew down and teasingly kneaded James's erection through his trousers. James let out a nearly inaudible gasp and carefully stilled himself. Confused, John paused for a moment before he realised what was happening. Pulling away from James, he sunk down and began undoing James's trousers. "Oh, that's how it is, is it?" he murmured huskily as he pulled off the belt. "You don't want to let yourself lose control. You don't want to give yourself over to me, so you fight it with everything you have. You try to keep yourself quiet and still because you don't want me to know just how much this affects you."

"Quite the romantic, aren't you?" James countered, avoiding the statement altogether.

John raised and eyebrow before yanking James's trousers and pants down. "Well," he murmured after a moment, "only one of us is naked right now…" He was just about to take the tip of James's cock in his mouth when the other man sprang up and pinned John down onto the bed instead.

"Don't for a _second_ believe you have any control over me," he hissed out angrily before yanking John's T-shirt off.

Before anything could be said, James sank his teeth into John's neck, making him let out a yelp of pain mixed with pleasure. James's hands nimbly removed John's pyjama bottoms and pants, leaving both of them naked and panting. Carefully, James licked where he had just bitten down before pressing a kiss into the skin. Meanwhile, his hands trailed down John's sides before swiftly caressing his chest and tweaking his nipples. Arching his back into the touch, John let out a quiet groan of need. James then swiftly shifted up and latched onto the other side of the neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. Pain bloomed there, but the pleasure John was receiving from being touched was enough to keep him satisfied. Slowly pulling back, James examined his second mark before kissing him on the lips. This time, he had managed to take John off guard, and he flicked his tongue in. Slowly, John reacted and playfully swiped his tongue back in response. Being dominated wasn't so bad, he supposed, although he would never admit that out loud. James deepened the kiss, exploring John's mouth thoroughly before pulling back before John could have his turn. Letting out a disappointed groan, he quickly reached down to yank James back down for a kiss. However, he slipped out of John's hands by suddenly leaning over to the left and opening the nightstand drawer. He grabbed something, and it took John a moment to realise it was lubricant. Immediately, his heart began racing in his chest.

"James," he started to say.

"Just trust me, John," James whispered as he slicked his left hand.

It was only until his hand wrapped around John's aching erection that he actually managed to relax. It was firm and yet not painfully tight, slowly shifting up and down. It was maddening to finally have the much needed contact only for it to still not be enough. Involuntarily, John bucked up into James's hand only to have it pull back, much to his frustration. Part of him just wanted to reach down and take himself in his hand if only to spite James. Another part, however, knew that James had an objective here, and he wanted to know what it was. "Stop teasing me," John demanded, not sure how it would go over. James raised an eyebrow in response before he promptly began stroking harder and faster. Tossing his head back, John let out a low moan and bucked up into it. God, he had needed the contact more than he originally thought. His eyes shut as pleasure overwhelmed his senses.

"Keep your eyes on me," James ordered sharply.

Immediately, John's eyes flashed open and locked onto James's. He was already panting, his jaw slightly slack as his half-lidded eyes threatened to close again. "J-James," he managed to say before feeling a particularly rough stroke. "Yes!" he cried out, bucking up into James's hand encouragingly.

Smirking, James shifted his right hand down. John wouldn't have noticed if he had not felt a slicked finger circle his entrance. Without warning, James thrust his finger in before crooking it and pulling out. John was surprised by the sudden movement, and he jolted slightly. James then thrust a finger in again, this time twisting it sharply before pulling out. Slowly, each of them found a rhythm – James thrusting a finger in, curling it, pulling out, back in, twisting, pulling back out. The stimulation was like nothing John had ever experienced before, being penetrated while stroked, and it wasn't as painful as he thought it would be. Trembling ever so slightly, John barely managed to keep his eyes opened and focused on James. He kept making embarrassing noises – moans and whimpers – as James continued with his ministrations. And then just as abruptly, John felt a second finger plunge in with the first. It would have been incredibly uncomfortable had James not struck his prostate.

"Oh, fuck!" John exclaimed as a jolt of pleasure went straight up his spine. His eyes were wide, and he stared at James for a long moment as he tried to comprehend everything.

"Like that?" James prompted before repeating the motion. Whimpering, John bit his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself quiet. He swallowed hard and barely managed to nod in response. "Good." With that, James leaned down and gave John a sweet, chaste kiss. Then he shifted, removing his hand from John's still painfully hard cock, and coming to rest in between John's legs. Instinctively, John spread him further apart to give James better access. After a few more thrusts, James slipped in a third finger, not losing rhythm at all. This, however, caused a flicker of pain to shoot up John's back, and he tensed a moment. Feeling this, James stilled and murmured, "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," John responded a bit haughtily. After all, he was the one with three fingers up his arse. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling awkwardly filled by them. It almost felt like too much, and he knew that he would have more in store than just three fingers if they continued.

James chuckled under his breath. "Push out," he then said. It took John a moment before he processed that this was an order. Doing as he was told, John felt his arse relax around James's fingers, which immediately began to play with his prostate again. Meanwhile, James lowered his head and began to leave bites and love bites on John's inner thighs, which were definitely going to bruise and leave him marked. Moaning, John bucked down greedily as he finally began to loosen around James's fingers and wanted to take more into him. "Yes, that's it, John," James whispered, his eyes locked on John's face. "Very good."

At this point, John could no longer tell if James was being sincere or condescending, so he elected to ignore that final comment. He gasped for breath as James struck his prostate repeatedly, making his cock twitch in interest and need. John reached down to stroke himself only for James's free hand to brush him away. Scowling, John instead propped himself up on one arm and reached out with the other, gently teasing James's nipples. James gasped, and his fingers faltered a moment in response. It was nice to finally get a reaction out of James, but John knew that this wasn't enough. That it would probably never be enough.

"I'm not going to beg for it if that's what you're waiting for," John informed James as he gave a grind down.

James removed his fingers, much to John's disappointment and slight horror. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you. I'll make you beg some other time, though. I promise."

With that, John felt his legs being separated and his arse lifted off the mattress for a second as James reached up and snatched a pillow. Once it was situated underneath John, James let his legs drop again before dragged John closer to him. Suddenly, all those trepidations about anal sex came flooding into John's mind once more. "James, wait," he said, trying to pull away.

James's vice grip kept him there. "It'll be alright," he whispered. He leaned down and captured John's lips in a biting kiss, causing John to moan in response. After breaking the kiss, he murmured, "We'll take it slow, and it will be nothing less than pleasurable."

"Condom?" John inquired pointedly.

Scoffing, James responded, "We're both clean, John. Did you honestly think I would take you unprotected if we weren't?"

John hesitated a moment. "No, I don't…" he finally admitted.

Leaning down, James whispered, "Just trust me, alright? I'll take care of you."

There was a look in James's eyes – a flash – of caring. If John had blinked, he would have missed it. As it was, he wasn't entirely sure if he had just imagined it in the first place. But he, despite himself, trusted James. He sucked in a deep breath and gave a short nod. Smiling in response, James shifted and repositioned himself. John forced himself to relax, and James's grans breached into his body before pulling back out. They were slow, short thrusts, barely entering before pulling out. James continued to kiss John's face and lips and nip harshly at his neck and clavicle as he moved. It was almost painfully slow in John's mind, as James dipped deeper and deeper and stretched him further and further, yet never quite going in to the hilt. Shifting his legs wider, John looked down and watched as James thrust half-way in. It was incredibly erotic to watch as James slipped in and out of him. Groaning, John tossed his head back and bucked down encouragingly.

"John, look at me," James managed to say through his panting.

John slowly looked back down. With one swift movement, James buried himself into John's body, and pain flickered up John's spine as he was stretched and completely filled. Gasping, he curled forward for a second only to be pushed back into the mattress. James stilled for a moment, leaning down and trailing kisses down John's jaw. It felt strange – being filled in such an intimate way – but it wasn't as painful as he thought it would be. A touch uncomfortable, but nothing that John couldn't work through. Eventually, James pulled out before smoothly sinking back into John's body. This time, his prostate was struck, and John let out a cry as a rush of pleasure raced through his body.

"Oh, fuck, James!"

Grinning, James pulled out and slowly thrust back in. Every time, it was smooth and precise, always trying to strike John's prostate. John was an utter wreck, moaning and grabbing at the sheets and then James himself, trying to draw him closer as he was being repeatedly filled. It felt like he needed more still, although he wasn't entirely sure what more he needed. When he accidentally raked his nails down James's back, James gave a rough thrust in, causing John to let out a whimper of need.

"You like it a bit rough, do you?" James inquired huskily, giving another sharp snap into John's body. John gave another whimper and dug his fingers into James's back. "I should have known."

With that, James began to pound into John's body, his thrusts sharp and fast. John was more vocal than he had ever been before, moaning and whimpering, as flesh met flesh. Reaching down, James took John's leaking erection in his hand and began stroking it in time with his thrusts. It felt incredible to finally have that contact – to understand why it wasn't quite enough before. All too soon, John felt that knot in the bottom of his stomach begin to twist painfully, and he tossed back his head and enjoyed the ripples of pleasure that shot through his body, making him shudder and moan repeatedly. Realising he was on the cusp of climax, John gasped out James's name, trying to warn him out of habit. Shushing him, James leaned down and kissed John once again. John screamed out, muffled by the kiss, as he came on himself. James moaned as well, one of the most substantial noises he had ever made, and broke the kiss, panting hard as he began to buck wildly into John. The room was filled with the sounds of panting, grunts, and the meeting of flesh with flesh. Catching his breath, John propped himself up slightly and continued to move with James, tightening his arse around James's cock in order to help him reach the edge.

"Not inside," John managed to warn, seeing James getting closer to his climax.

Grunting in acknowledgement, James ripped out of John and stroked himself to completion, coming on John while moaning out his name loudly. John watched on in fascination as he watched James lose control of himself. It was a glorious sight – James's eyes skewed shut, his mouth dropped in a perfect "o" shape as he called out John's name, his entire body tense and rigid. Collapsing next to John, James rolled onto his back and tried to catch his breath. Both of them took a long moment before John let out a groan. He felt disgusting, and being covered in cum was doing nothing for him. Going to get up, he felt an arm wrap possessively around his waist and a sharp spike of pain shoot through his lower torso.

"I need to clean myself up," John objected, setting a hand on James's arm.

"You'll be sore," James warned him.

"I know, but I've survived worse than that."

Without another word, John rose slowly to his feet and bit back a groan as pain shot through his back. He slowly shifted out of the bedroom, as the bathroom was down the hall. Very carefully, he cleaned himself off and went back into the bedroom. James was under the duvet with his back turned to the door. John took the time to put on his pants, despite the pain it caused him, before sliding into bed as well. He tugged the duvet over him and turned his back to James as well. Closing his eyes, he relaxed but didn't quite fall asleep.

Although his PTSD didn't haunt him as much, John still suffered from nightmares and, less frequently, night terrors. He knew that tonight was a high-risk night, despite how the sex had off-set his adrenaline rush and fear. So as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he shifted and twisted until he came in contact with James. He would then relax until he realised what he was doing, and he would pull away from James and move to his side of the bed once more. After all, he never needed someone before, so why would he need someone now?

Eventually, John managed to actually fall asleep. It began peacefully, but then the dreams started up. Shouted orders – gunfire – explosions – screams – blood – dilapidated buildings – blinding sunlight – unbearable heat. Eyes wide, John suddenly jerked up and let out a bloodcurdling scream as he clutched his wounded shoulder. As he continued to yell, he couldn't feel the arms wrap around him nor the hand that stroked through his hair nor the lips being pressed into his temple. He also couldn't hear the soft, soothing words being spoken into his ear. The only thing that John could feel was adrenaline-induced fear. Gradually, he calmed down and his screaming subsided. He went limp, collapsing into those arms, and was drawn close as they laid back down. Once situated, he was basically laying on top of James. One last kiss was pressed into his hair before John's eyes closed once more.

He silently slept for another few hours before he stirred and realised where he was. Confused, he went to pull back before he felt arms tighten around him. "Don't," James warned, his voice still heavy from sleep.

"I sleep better alone," John responded earnestly.

"That's bullshit."

Blinking, John locked up and pressed, "What do you mean?"

"Do you honestly not remember?" James prompted, his eyes still closed. "You tossed and turned for a solid two hours. Then once you fell asleep, you were quiet only for an hour at most before you started screaming like someone was killing you. You wouldn't have woken up for the apocalypse. But for the last nearly three hours, you've slept peacefully." John was at a loss for words. "So do me a favour, would you? I have to work tomorrow, and I would appreciate more than three hours of sleep."

John shifted slightly in James's arms, feeling somewhat guilty about the whole situation. He was just so used to Sherlock, who almost never slept and therefore didn't really care about how well John slept at night, that he hadn't thought that maybe he was causing James issues. Naturally, that had been remarkably selfish of him. He needed to just suck up his pride for once and depend on someone no matter how much he didn't want to. After all, James didn't deserve to lose sleep when there was apparently something John could do to keep that from happening. Frowning, he said nothing as he slowly sank back down. It took a couple of shifts before he was comfortable again with one of James's arms wrapped around his shoulders and John's head resting on his chest. It felt strange. First of all, he wasn't used to having such warmth underneath him. But secondly, he had never been the kind of man to be intimate after finding out he had a night terror. It always made him feel weak to depend on someone at that point. But right now, he supposed he didn't really mind all that much. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of James's even breathing and steady heartbeat as he slowly slipped back into a remarkably peaceful sleep once more.


	12. White Pawn to D4, Black Knight to E7

"It's time to wake up," a voice called out as a pair of hands pushed up on him.

Groaning, John let himself be shoved off and nestled into the bed once more. It felt so nice there that he mumbled, "Five more minutes."

He heard a chuckle before he felt a hand trail down his stomach and knead his half-hard cock through his pants. He must have been having a somewhat nice dream before he woke up, and how he didn't notice his corporeal state before was beyond him. Immediately, blood rushed south, giving him a full erection in no time at all. Letting out a small moan, he cracked open an eye and looked over at James, who was smirking at him mischievously. He slowly sank down, and John's breath caught in his throat as his pants were tugged down. His cock sprang out, aching for attention. Before John could do or say anything, James wrapped his lips around the tip. John felt a flick of tongue at the slit of his glans, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Slowly sliding down, James took his time to reach the base of John's cock. John stared with wide eyes, aroused by the sight more so than the feel.

"James," he breathed out, his voice barely audible.

James's eyes snapped up to look at him as he continued to slowly suck him. The piercing gaze sent a shiver down John's spine. As if having James's hot, wet mouth around his cock wasn't enough to turn him on. Suddenly, James hummed, and the vibrations sent a delicious feeling through John's body, who moaned in response as his cock twitched under the ministrations. He ran his hands through James's hair, letting his nails barely scrape the scalp. James gave an encouraging moan in response, causing John to involuntarily buck up into his mouth before muttering an apology. Luckily, it seemed that James didn't mind so much, as he continued to suck fervently. His tongue pressed into the back of John's shaft firmly, compressing into every contour from base to tip. John groaned as he felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge of climax as James hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder than before. Suddenly, John felt a graze of teeth against his shaft, and he let out a startled cry as adrenaline shot through his body. That sense of danger was apparently just what he needed.

"Do that again!" he ordered.

Sliding back down to the base, James repeated the motion, and John let out a low moan. He was so, so close. He locked his hands in James's hair, trying to physically convey a warning that he was about to come. Humming in acknowledgement, James began bobbing up and down faster, making sure to give him long, even sucks. Finally, John tipped over the edge and came in James's mouth while moaning out his name. He then collapsed into the mattress as he tried to reorient himself. James gradually pulled off him, cleaning off the whatever semen might have remained.

"Awake now?" James teased.

"For the most part." He grinned down at James. "That was the best wake up alarm I've ever had," John noted cheerfully, still basking in his post-coital bliss. It was then he noticed the state the James was in. "Would you like me to return the favour?"

Smirking, James rolled onto his back and lowered his pants just enough to release his own erection. He gave himself a few strokes before looking at John expectantly. John came over and nestled between James's legs before giving several long, languid licks from base to tip. Wrapping his lips around the glans, John swirled his tongue around it before flicking at the slit and pulling off. James groaned and laced his fingers through John's hair. They locked as much as they could, although it was only because John hadn't had a haircut in far too long. After a moment's hesitation, he pushed John's head down so his mouth was wrapped halfway around his cock before thrusting up. John gagged for a second, not expecting the suddenly movement. The next thrust into his mouth wasn't so forceful. He slackened his jaw in order to take the whole length into his mouth. Gradually moving faster and faster, James eventually got to the point of fucking John's mouth roughly. Although he managed to keep himself from gagging every time, John found it difficult at points to take everything in. James didn't seem to mind, though, since the gagging only caused him to thrust in harder the next time.

John probingly let his teeth scrape along the shaft, and James let out a low moan as he did so. So he liked it a little rough as well. A little dangerous. Already, John's jaw was beginning to hurt, and his lips were swollen and red. Suddenly, he felt James's cock twitch in his mouth. He prepared himself to swallow whatever was given to him only for his head to be pulled up and away. Panting, John looked up with half-lidded eyes. James moaned out John's name as he came on his face, startling John immensely. He had never experienced such a thing before, and he flinched as he felt the cum splatter across his face. Blinking, he looked up at James, who gazed down at him and then let out a groan before tugging John up for a kiss. He could still taste himself on James's tongue.

Breaking the kiss, James responded, "I have to go to work."

"You actually have an office for what you do?" John inquired, thoroughly surprised. "I would have never thought you would maintain a headquarters somewhere."

"What good is owning a closet full of Westwood suits if no one sees them?" James inquired rhetorically. "Besides, you're living in my primary flat, so I have to go somewhere else in order to work. Can't have you accidentally overhearing or seeing something." John's expression dropped as he heard this. "For your own safety," he added quietly before rising to his feet. "I would suggest for you to get cleaned up again. And be ready at eight tonight. We're going to go out."

Surprised, John watched James carefully as he moved about the room. "Where to?"

"Nowhere special. Just a small café for a drink and maybe a dessert. I'm sure you could use the fresh air, and it will infuriate Mr Holmes to no end. Interested?"

"Of course," John answered earnestly. After all, it meant that he was able to go out and about in the open air. Last night, he had gotten a taste, but hardly the time to enjoy it. He rose from the bed and, before leaving the bedroom, called back, "I can hardly wait."

Minutes seemed to tick by painfully slow as John waited for eight o'clock to come. There was even less to do in this flat than in the last one, especially since he didn't feel comfortable enough to clean up more than the basics. So that meant he spent the rest of the day watching telly, which he was beginning to loathe, or cooking something to eat. He ate far too much nowadays due to his boredom, and he would have to put himself on an exercise schedule at this rate. Finally, it turned eight o'clock, and he found that he had to wait an extra five minutes before James actually returned to the flat. John waited, fully expecting to be blindfolded before they headed out, and James stared at him expectantly. "Are we going to go or not?"

"Aren't you going to blindfold me first?"

Scoffing, James responded, "Useless, really. You've seen the building, and we're in a nondescript part of town. Besides, we're only going a couple of buildings down. Hardly a need for you to be blindfolded."

"Why the change? I pointed out at my last flat that I already knew what the building looked like, but you brushed me off."

James's lips pressed together in a thin line for a moment. "It just doesn't matter," he responded, his voice sharp. This was apparently not up for discussion. "So are you coming or not?"

"Are you really going out in a Westwood?" John asked incredulously.

Looking down at himself, James inquired, "What's wrong with it?"

"We're going to a _café_, not a five-star restaurant. You're going to draw more attention than is necessary," John informed him. "Change. I'm not going to be outclassed by you in a café."

James looked incredibly amused at this, which surprised John. He always figured Moriarty to be the type to always want to be in control – to not take demands too kindly. But then again, maybe he just found it entertaining that John had the audacity to give him a command despite his position. "Is that an order, Captain?"

"It can be if that's what it requires for you to get changed," John responded matter-of-factly.

Rolling his eyes, James slowly removed his tie. "Be sure to not get into a habit of making such taxing demands, Johnny. I don't want to regret having you here so soon," he sang out as he headed into the bedroom. After a few minutes, he emerged in a blue button-down shirt and a nice pair of pinstripe trousers. "Better?"

"Much."

"Let's go then. We were supposed to leave ten minutes ago."

Chuckling, he replied, "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you were five minutes late."

"I had important things to do, or do you forget who pays for all of this?" James responded as he opened the door. "So ungrateful."

Walking out of the flat, John jokingly replied, "The first rule of dating is never be late."

"Oh, so now we're on a date?"

"Well, what else was this supposed to be? Dessert between two mates with benefits?" John jestingly retorted as he headed towards the lift. Already, he knew he was flirting with a fine line between joking and revealing himself. "Because I'll cost you more than just a dessert."

James quirked an eyebrow as he stepped onto the lift. "A prostitute now, are we?" he queried rhetorically. "And you've already cost me a flat. How much more expensive could you possibly be?"

"Do you really want to find out?" John challenged, not allowing James to ruffle his feathers.

"Definitely not," James answered honestly. The lift doors opened once more, and they stepped out into the lobby. As they headed for the front door, he prompted, "How do you feel about video games?"

"What?" John asked, not having caught what James said. That's what he got for letting his mind wander as soon as he got into a location with new visual stimuli. He stepped outside and sucked in a deep breath of air. God, he missed this so much. "Sorry," he added, glancing over.

"Video games," James repeated. "You've previously complained about having nothing to do. It could be something that occupies your time while I'm away at work. Keep your reflexes sharp."

Frowning, John shrugged as he checked to make sure that they weren't about to get hit by any cars. "I've never really played them before. Not my thing, you see. I would much rather be outside actually adventuring about than in a room pretending to."

"Shame," James murmured under his breath as they crossed the street. "Back to the drawing board, I suppose."

Although he knew that those two comments were meant to be just for James's ears, John couldn't help but respond. After all, James had actually been spending time thinking about what he could do to make John's stay a bit better. How to keep John's day somewhat occupied and not so dull. "I suppose I could always try new things, though. I've never really tried it before, so who's to say that I won't like it?" He was trying to be optimistic despite the fact that he seriously doubted that he would like playing video games.

James seemed to perk up as he heard this. "Very good. I'll get that in order then. I'm sure Moran wouldn't mind coming around to show you the ropes anyway. He's all about those Call of Halo: Black Assassins games… or whatever the Hell they're called." So James wasn't much of a gamer himself. That hardly surprised John. "That's settled then. Good. Now I can go back to more important things."

John knew that was supposed to be a jab, but he couldn't seriously take it as one. So instead, he kept his mouth shut and followed James into the café. After they ordered, they sat in a booth in the far corner that was close to the emergency exit and had a clear viewing of the front door. Part of John wondered if Moriarty ever took a step back in order to suck in a deep breath. Considering his line of work, John doubted it. But it was interesting to see. Where as Sherlock was always relaxed – always certain that he would see any potential threat coming – Moriarty was cautious, wanting to make sure to err on the side of caution. But then again, that was the difference between being the world's only consulting detective and the world's only consulting criminal.

"Johnny-boy," James called out, catching John's attention.

"Hm?"

"You're an awful date – zoning out on me like that. I was in the middle of telling you how my day was," James jested, grinning almost maniacally. "I have good news for you, after all."

This piqued John's interest. "Oh?"

"Those blokes – the ones who thought it would be a great idea to try to blow you up – are dead," James sang out, his grin turning a bit sadistic. It was very much Moriarty-like.

John sat there a long moment as he digested those words. The men who had – accidentally – tried to kill him were dead. He knew what he _should_do. He should scold James for taking such a route and then drop right into a philosophical debate about the proper way to handle such sensitive affairs since now the Yard would have a case that remained cold. Or, even worse, Sherlock would pick up the case and figure out who was behind it. However, he didn't feel the need to pursue this avenue. Those men – indirectly or not – had tried to kill him. After spending so much time in Afghanistan, John knew how precious his life was to him. He had thought that he had come to terms with death only to be begging God for more time by the end of it all. So he felt no remorse for their deaths, somewhat to his surprise, and only for the fact that these men had gotten themselves caught up in such an awful situation.

"I don't know the usual protocol with this," John jested, offering a small smile. "Do I congratulate you? Or would you prefer that I said nothing more on the topic and just moved on?"

A waitress came over and set their drinks on the table before sauntering off. Once she was out of earshot, James said, "You could always thank me."

"Thank you then," John responded sincerely.

James seemed satisfied with this, and he smiled broadly before reclining into his seat. "You're welcome," he replied. "Although I did it more for my own sake than yours. I had to show people what happened to them if they tried to attack me… or something that - um – could be misinterpreted as important to me."

"You could have just left ended it after 'you're welcome,' you know," John said, making sure he sounded like he was joking. Truth be told, it felt like a slap to the face – the constant reminder that this was temporary. This was physical. This wasn't anything more than that, no matter if John wanted it to be or not.

Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. He looked up to find James leaning forward, clearly interested in something. "You look like you're about to be sick," James noted, reaching out to touch John's forehead.

Intercepting the hand, John brushed it away. "I'm fine," he said curtly before taking a drink of coffee. "I suppose I am feeling a bit queasy. It must be the coffee or something. It's been a while since I've been to a café anyway," he lied. It was weak, but it would have to do. There was no way he could tell James what was really bothering him. "Thank you for this, by the way," he added. "I mean, I know it's because you want to throw it back into Mycroft's face later, but… still…"

Letting out a sigh, James nodded in acknowledgement and looked out the window at the street. Neither said a word as they continued to drink their coffee. And then gradually James's hand travelled across the table. It was only when it touched John's hand that he noticed any movement at all. His eyes snapped over quickly to find that James was still gazing out the window at the street. Chuckling under his breath, John rolled his eyes and flipped his hand over compliantly, allowing James to take it properly in his own. It was intimate, and people would most likely think they were an actual couple, not knowing who they were nor their situation. And for the first time in a long time, John didn't really mind what people thought or if they talked. After all, none of it would matter in the end. No one would remember the two men who sat in the back of a small café while holding each other's hands. No one except them, and that's all that really mattered, he supposed. Honestly, he wondered how many nights in the future he would look back on this date with fondness. Be jealous of the time that he still had left with James. But that would be in due time. Right now – the present – that's what mattered. He would have the future to beat himself up. But right now, he could just enjoy himself.

Subconsciously, he gave James's hand a squeeze. James glanced over for a second before squeezing back. Both of them sat there, linked and yet separate, as they just enjoyed the other's presence.


	13. White Knight to G5, Black Pawn to H6

"Behind you, Watson!" Moran shouted.

John jumped as he heard the yell before turning his character around in time to see Moran's character shoot their attacker in the head. Letting out a sigh, he relaxed back into the sofa. Moran had come over earlier in the day – after James left – and set up an Xbox 360 in the living room and put in some wartime videogame. For the last three hours, John had been learning the controls, how to read the map properly, coordinating between weapons, and how to effectively play the game. Moran actually turned out to be a good teacher, taking his time with John and explaining everything precisely. Best of all, he didn't get upset when John messed up a mission up or died. Instead, he would laugh merrily before restarting everything.

"Jesus Christ, Moran," John finally said as a cut scene started, "I don't know how you manage to react so quickly."

"Practice," Moran answered him, leaning forward and snatching up his beer from the coffee table. "Seriously. If you spend enough time playing videogames, you can become this good at them as well."

Laughing, John responded, "I still can't remember which button is for grenades and which is for my other weapon. I'm pretty sure I'm just a lost cause."

"I've seen worse after three hours of playing," Moran noted encouragingly before draining his beer and crushing the can. The cut scene ended. "Let's do this!"

John had his character follow Moran's across the field, keeping low and behind cover as much as possible. Once Moran navigated them up somewhere high, John instinctively turned his character around to watch Moran's back. It was a system that they had developed since Moran enjoyed being a sniper even in videogames. Of course, he could be a sniper in the game. It was sort of hard for John to be an army doctor. The first time he saw his character "heal" Moran, he was appalled by what the programmers had depicted as proper first aid.

As Moran began to pick off enemy soldiers, John said, "You know, I'm enjoying this more than I was expecting."

"Good," Moran grunted. John could tell that he wasn't really processing what was being said to him, concentrating too hard on the game.

So jokingly, John continued, "But I think I would enjoy it more if we were having sex while playing. What do you think of that?"

"Yeah."

"I would be fucking you, of course. I hope you don't mind that at all."

"And what if _I_ minded it?" a familiar voice called out darkly from behind them.

Both men jumped to attention. Apparently, Moran hadn't noticed James walk in either. They turned around to find Moriarty stalking over, his eyes piercing and narrowed. "Boss," Moran responded, pausing the game. He didn't say anything else, clearly trying to ascertain if he was in trouble or not.

"I was just kidding, James. Moran wasn't listening, and I decided to give him a hard time," John stated quickly, rising to his feet.

Moriarty's eyes flickered from Moran's face to John's and back. He was observing and deducing, and John went at ease. After all, they weren't being sexually intimate, and John had no interest in being more than just friends with Moran. James would see that. Eventually, Moriarty relaxed ever so slightly after a long moment of silence. "Come with me, Moran. I have a job for you."

"Yes, sir," Moran responded, standing up. He looked back at John long enough to say, "If you want to continue playing, you just need to turn it to single-player mode." Walking around the sofa, he followed Moriarty out of the room and into the small entryway.

John turned back to the game and exited their current mission before turning it on single-player mode. He barely managed to get through the first mission when he heard the door open again. Putting the game on pause, he cautiously turned his head to find James undoing his tie, having already shrugged off his jacket. Relieved, he relaxed a bit more. "Feel better?" he inquired nonchalantly.

"Yes, but you might want to watch what you say in the future. I'm not known for my charity, after all," James responded as he headed towards him.

John could see he was still a bit tense, though. "Need a massage?" he asked.

James paused a moment. "Do you give massages?"

"I'm no professional, but I did take a class in Uni. Just take off your shirt and lie down."

Humming in response, James walked over, removed his shirt, and tapped John, signalling him to stand up. As soon as he did, James flopped over the back of the sofa and groaned as he sprawled out. John chuckled in response before straddling James's waist. He carefully pressed flat hands onto James's back before pushing down and stroking up. Letting out a groan, James relaxed further under the touch. Slowly, John worked his way up James's spine before massaging his shoulders, which actually crackled under his touch, and neck. He then worked back down, this time focusing on James's shoulder blades and lower back. By the time he was through, James had practically melted into the sofa.

"Jesus Christ, Johnny, why didn't you tell me you could massage earlier?" James complained as John pulled away.

"You never asked."

James chuckled under his breath as he heard this. Very slowly, he sat up and began to wiggle about, as if testing everything out. At the very least, he looked more limber than before. John smiled proudly before sitting down and picking up the controller again. Suddenly, something heavy plopped into his lap, and he looked down to find James had made him a pillow. He didn't have the heart to object, so he sat back and resumed his game. Before he knew it, James was sleeping on top of him. He took the few seconds required to grab the blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over James's figure. Then he muted the game, opting to read the subtitles in order to know what was going on, in order to leave James undisturbed. Every time a cut scene came, he would lower his hand and gently comb it through James's hair. The first three times he did it, he hadn't even realised what he was doing, and even after he did, he continued. It gave him something to do.

Suddenly, James shifted and called out, "John…"

"Yeah?" John asked, not looking down as he shot yet another enemy.

Instead of answering, James flipped over and pressed his face into John's stomach. John paused the game and glanced down to find that James wasn't awake at all – that he had called out John's name in his sleep. All at once, his heart fluttered and ached. He didn't know how to feel about it… because he understood the implications. There was a chance that James was starting to care about him in return. _Truly_ care about him, which had never been a possibility before in John's mind. But still, John could not stay with James. Once the month was over, he would have to return to Sherlock. Sherlock still needed him – he hoped – and he had a life to return to. A life, a job, friends… Not even John Watson could just give everything up on the off-chance that whatever he and James had actually worked out in the end. Even so, he couldn't help but lower his hand and run it through James's hair again. This time, it was done carefully and precisely. James looked so peaceful while sleeping, his expression neutral for once. There was no need to guard anything or to be analysing, calculating, deducing, and planning every second.

Letting out a sigh, John looked back up at the telly and resumed his game. James's arms eventually wrapped around his waist, and he said nothing as he shifted to accommodate. It felt… nice to have someone wrapped around him, although he would never admit that aloud. But to have that heavy warmth on him just reminded him that he wasn't alone even though the room was quiet. Feeling content, he focused on surviving the next mission. Every now and again, James would mutter something under his breath. John was normally not paying enough attention to make out what was being said, and when he did, it wasn't very coherent. Part of John wondered why he hadn't realised that James talked in his sleep before. And then he remembered that James usually fell asleep after him and woke up before him.

Suddenly, James let out a groan. John didn't look down until he felt those arms unwrap from his body. James blinked sleepily and gazed up at him. Without thinking, John swooped down and captured those pretty lips with his own. James jerked slightly, clearly taken off guard by John's reaction, before responding and pressing back. Slowly, John reached over and set his controller on the coffee table. It freed his hands so he could tangle them in James's hair. Sighing into the kiss, he allowed himself to be shoved back down onto the sofa. James's hands abruptly slid up his jumper, and his breath hitched a moment as James started to knead and tease his nipples. John let out a groan before thrusting his tongue into James's mouth, exploring it languidly. Every movement was precise as he started in the front and shifted back, licking, feeling, and memorising the responses for each movement – if James's breath hitched or if he made a small noise in the back of his throat. Everything fascinated John about it. _He_ was the one who incited these reactions, and that gave him a sense of pride. Not once did James make a noise of complaint or try to make him hurry up. Once John pulled back, though, he broke the kiss and immediately bit down on John's neck, causing him to gasp as pain mixed with pleasure.

Once satisfied, James reclined and removed a hand from John's jumper. "Do you know why I prefer bruises?" he inquired softly, tracing out the mark tenderly. It was just adding to John's repertoire of other marks.

"No."

"They require up-keep," James explained quietly, his eyes roaming to the other couple of bruises that were still visible on John's neck. "They fade over time, after all, so I have to keep making new ones. And bite marks… only I have this set of teeth. They will be able to match up those bites with my dental records. Well, if I had dental records on file. But it's another way to let everyone know that they're not allowed to touch you."

Laughing at this, John retorted, "What other people? The only person I ever see is Moran, and there's no way that something is going to happen between me and him."

James didn't answer John's question either way, instead opting to tug John's jumper off and undo his trousers. Lowering himself, he began to leave more love bites across John's chest as he kneaded John's nearly painful erection through his trousers. Pain mixed wonderfully with pleasure, and John moaned before bucking into James's hand. Pulling down John's pants slowly, James lowered himself between John's legs before quietly murmuring, "Even after you leave, I want people to know."

"Wha-?" John started to ask. However, James wrapped his lips around John's cock and slammed down to the base, deep throating him in one go. Immediately, John lost his train of thought as James started roughly sucking him, his head bobbing up and down quickly as he alternated between humming and grazing his teeth down the shaft's length. His mouth felt incredible still, so warm and tight. The flick of tongue at the tip, the swirl around the glans, the swallow once at the base again – everything was done to drive John closer to the edge. "F-Fuck, James!"

Pulling off with a _pop_, James grinned up at John. "Is that what you would like to do now?" he inquired huskily.

"Yes," John breathed out.

"Flip over."

John complied as James slicked his fingers in his mouth. Suddenly, John felt two fingers plunge into his body. The feeling of having something inside of him was still strange, but no longer unwelcomed. Once James managed to strike his prostate, he let out a low moan of approval. Meanwhile, James's other hand moved down and began fumbling around in an attempt to undo his own trousers. There was a moment of pause as James shoved them and his pants down to his knees before everything resumed. Spreading his legs further, John gasped when he felt James's lips on the back of his neck. Slowly, kisses trailed until halfway down his spine. Then John felt James shift upwards again. Right when his prostate was hit once more, John felt James lick up the right side of his neck. He twisted his head instinctively, giving James better access, and bucked back on James's hand. Chuckling, James moved back down before sinking his teeth into John's clavicle. Letting out a yelp, John felt his cock twitch as the danger that came from pain mixed perfectly with pleasure. Gradually, the thrusts became rough and fast, and James started teasing him by not striking the prostate again.

"James!" John moaned out, needing more than what he was receiving.

"I know, I know," James soothed as he removed his fingers.

There was a long moment of silence and no touching whatsoever, leaving John wanting for longer than he expected. Just as he was about to turn around, he felt a slicked tip press against his entrance. Where James was hiding lube in the living room, John didn't know – and he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. With one thrust, James went in to the hilt, his balls smacking into John's arse. John let out a cry of pleasure at the roughness of their coupling, dulled only by the burn of being stretched enough to accommodate James's size, and braced himself against the sofa. Pulling out nearly all the way, James snapped his hips back in and let out a grunt. John groaned in appreciation as he felt his prostate hit, sending a rush of ecstasy through his body. Suddenly, James's left hand, which had been on John's hip, moved. At first, John thought James was going to start stroking his erection to give John back some of the pleasure that he was experiencing. However, John felt James's weight shift forward. By the time he realised what James was doing, it was too late to say anything. He felt a hand clamp down on his injured shoulder, and it felt like he was being stabbed. Screaming out in pain, John jerked away from James and clutched his shoulder as it continued to throb.

"John!" James called out in surprise and concern, immediately pulling out of John's body.

As he reached out, John snarled, "Don't touch me!"

He curled into himself, whimpering as his shoulder gave a few more spasms. God, he was nearly infuriated. James knew from that one day - that it could possibly send John into a PTSD episode - and should have left his scar alone! Tears of pain rolled down his cheeks as his previously inactive nerve cells fired off angrily. Minutes ticked by slowly as his shoulder went from a stabbing pain to a hard throb and back. During this time, John would cry or groan in pain or yell angrily or whimper as he slowly rocked himself. Eventually, it subsided to an ever-present ache, and he could finally start taking in other information. He was now completely flaccid, his breathing was ragged, and his body was still slightly trembling from the rush of pain and adrenaline. James was standing just a meter away, watching John carefully, looking half-fascinated and half-alarmed. Even so, he made no move towards John, which is something that he appreciated greatly.

"Are you alright?" James inquired softly.

"What do you think?" John wanted to snap. He wanted to tell James off for causing him such pain. He wanted to point out that he told James that his wound still sometimes hurt him. James, of all people, should have been paying attention and refrained from touching his bloody scar! And yet he managed to control himself. He was a soldier, for Christ's sake. Self-control was in his nature. "I'll be fine," John finally snapped as he slowly sat up and favoured his left shoulder and arm.

Without missing a beat, James pointed out quietly, "That's not what I asked."

John was shocked, his anger curbed for a moment as he realised that James was actually _concerned_ about him. Blinking, he stared at James for a long moment. "I've been better," he finally confessed, rubbing his shoulder while being mindful to not knead it. He glanced down James's also flaccid cock. Apparently, the mood had been ruined for both of them.

"It's not an issue," James told him as he reached down to pull on his pants. He must have noticed John looking.

Quietly, John grabbed his pants as well, carefully pulling them on despite the soreness. The silence that followed as they got dressed was uncomfortable and awkward. Sitting on the sofa, John rubbed his hands together and glanced around. For the most part, his anger had died down. His shoulder still hurt like a bit, and he was frustrated that the entire incident had happened at all. It was something done in the moment, he reminded himself. God, he needed something else to talk about. Anything else. And yet this remained a blaring topic that needed further discussion. Even so, John wasn't in the mood to start down that conversational route. It would lead nowhere good for them, and he honestly just wanted to move forward with the day. But he still had to say _something_ about it. To make it clear that he was fine for the most part.

"They say you learn something new every day, you know," John finally pointed out, his tone matter-of-fact.

James looked down at him just as John glanced up. Their eyes met, and James slowly cracked a smile. Suddenly, he started laughing, collapsing into the sofa as he did so. Surprised, John wasn't sure how to react as James continued to laugh hysterically. It slowly started to get to him, though, and before John knew it, he was laughing as well. The two of them cackled until the sudden bout of mirth ended. Leaning into each other, both gasped for proper breath.

"After all that, the only thing you could think of to say was _that_?" James queried incredulously.

Grinning, John answered, "What should I have said instead? 'That hurt like a bitch,' perhaps?"

"Probably would have been a more proper response," James pointed out.

"And since when were you concerned about what was 'proper,' James Moriarty?" John retorted teasingly, nudging him with his good shoulder. His bad one still ached.

"You could have yelled at me for being so unobservant and too eager," James pointed out matter-of-factly.

John shook his head. "I know you couldn't help it. My hot body is hard to resist, I know." There was a pause in which the atmosphere changed, becoming more solemn. "Just watch it next time, would you? I enjoy it when things are a bit rough, but even I have my limits."

James nodded sombrely. "Of course." After a moment's pause, he added, "I'm… sorry." The words took John completely off guard, and it looked like James was in pain from just saying them alone. "It was in the moment and an uncalculated move that should have never happened. It won't be repeated, John."

"I know," John stated. "I trust you."

There was a flash of surprise that crossed James's face for just a split second before it was carefully masked. John supposed what he just said was rather surprising. After all, just a month ago, he would have laughed someone out of the room if they told him that he would place any of his trust in James Moriarty. Glancing around the room for a distraction, he noticed the video game was still on.

Nodding towards the television, John inquired, "Do you play?"

"No," James informed him.

"Want to learn how?"

James smirked slightly. "I thought I already learned my one new thing of the day," he noted nonchalantly, leaning back into the sofa and looking somewhat bored. Apparently, he was going to make John work for it.

"And how many days have passed by without you learning anything new?" John pointed out as he picked up both controllers. Holding one out to James, he said, "Come on. It'll be good for you. You'll get to kill things, and not a single life will be lost. Take out your frustrations on a bunch of computer generated people. I'm sure you will find it fascinating to figure out how many different ways you can kill someone in this game."

After a couple moments of silence, James silently took the controller from John's hands. John grinned, ending his game and turning a new two-player mission on. Leaning over, John pointed at the A button. "That's jump," he explained softly, smiling to himself as James started examining the controller more closely. He carefully clarified every button and trigger's function before turning on a mission, making sure it was on easy more for his own sake than for James's. As they played through the first one, James picked everything up much faster than he had. Before he knew it, James was protecting John from being killed in the game. Every now and again, something would happen that caused them to laugh or to jokingly banter back and forth about whose fault it was. It was only when John's stomach rumbled that they realised how late it had gotten.

"Dinner?" John asked, glancing over at James.

"Yeah. Let's go out for it."

Perking up, John inquired, "Where?"

"Somewhere small without CCTV cameras surrounding it," James responded, pulling out his mobile and beginning to skim through several files.

Turning off the television, John made sure to leave the game station on so they could continue from where they had left off. James grabbed his tie and put it on before heading towards the front door. This was exciting. John was being trusted more. Taken out to restaurants was a step up from a café or the park. It was a step forward in their relationship, ironically enough.

"John," James called out, catching John's attention.

"Coming."

John pulled on a jacket over his jumper and followed James out of the flat. A step forward – but towards what? Nothing, he reminded himself. And he wasn't going to say that he was in love to James. He would never admit how much it meant to him that James cared, in his own way, about John. Never. Because nothing good could come of that. Even so, he couldn't help but feel a small fluttering in his chest when James turned back and smiled at him.


	14. White Knight to F7, Black King to F7

For some reason, James had been out of the flat most of the day yesterday and only returned in the middle of the night. As James got into bed, John stirred and woke up just enough to shift accordingly before falling back asleep. The next morning, he arose to find James was gone again. John just figured that he could function on less sleep than normal human beings – sort of like how Sherlock could, although it was clear that James had a much more rhythmic cycle of sleeping than Sherlock ever would. Slowly, John got ready for the day. Just as he had finished his mourning routine, he heard the front door open. He peeked his head out from the bedroom to find James walking in with two full bags.

"No work today?" John prompted as he yanked on his jumper and headed out into the living room.

Shaking his head, James responded, "I finished everything that needed to be done yesterday. I thought that I might as well fulfil my promise of watching at least an hour of one of these movies with you."

At first, John was going to ask James what on Earth he was talking about, but when he saw a Bond DVD cover through the plastic of one of the bags, everything pieced together in his mind. The movie marathon he had been promised what felt like ages ago. It had only actually been four days, but what with the bombing, he hadn't paid much attention. And yet James had remembered. Not only had he remembered, but he had taken the initiative to retrieve the DVDs that John had talked about. John couldn't help the warmth that filled his chest, no matter how he might despise it.

Shifting slightly, James held out the bags. "Pick your poison," he stated.

John took the bags from James's hands and headed over to the coffee table, setting them down. As he sorted through them, he said, "You didn't have to do this, you know. I'm sure you noticed that I completely forgot about the deal we made. After the explosion… well, you know…" John's voice trailed as he pushed _that_ memory to the back of his mind. If he was still having night terrors, James hadn't said a word.

"I am a man of my word," James responded, sounding a bit bored. "So pick one out. We might as well get this over with."

Grabbing _Goldfinger_, John replied, "You have to keep an open mind. Who knows? Maybe you might come to love it. And then you'll have to eat your words."

James scoffed as he flopped onto the sofa. "I highly doubt that. As I said before, impossible physics and awful, cliché plotlines hardly interest me."

"Open mind," John reiterated as he headed over to the television and looked for a DVD player. There was none. "Um, James…" he started to say.

"Xbox also serves as a DVD player," James said, sounding a bit bored.

John poked the open button and watched as the machine came to life. Setting the disc inside, he closed it and headed back to the sofa. James already had a controller in his hands. John flopped down onto the sofa, rather excited about this. After all, he was going to watch a Bond movie with someone who hadn't seen it before and wouldn't call out every inconsistency the moment it happened. The movie started, and John was automatically engaged. He didn't think he would ever get tired of re-watching the Bond movies. After all, they had everything a movie would need: action, sometimes romance, other times plain lust, and a great amount of danger. He watched it with interest, though he couldn't help but glance over at James every now and again to gauge his reaction. More than anything, he wanted James to actually enjoy this. Hell, maybe even admit that he was wrong and watch another film. As time passed, James began to shift and squirm. John had seen that before when Sherlock was watching a Bond movie. It had happened right before Sherlock pulled out his laptop and began to update his blog. Slowly but surely, James was becoming bored.

John wanted nothing more than to fix it for him. Getting up, he saw James glance over at him, and he motioned towards the kitchen in explanation. James nodded in response and turned back to the film as John headed over to the pantry. Popcorn might help the situation. It would at least give James something to do. Quickly, he tossed a bag into the microwave and started it before heading over to the refrigerator to get something to drink. He opened the fridge and scanned down. Much to his surprise, he found a can of whipped cream sitting inside. He stared at it for a long moment. After all, he had asked again and again for whipped cream on the shopping list only to never receive it.

"You finally got whipped cream?" John called out, pulling the can out of the refrigerator.

James didn't look back as he said, "I didn't buy you whipped cream because I hate it. I wouldn't know what to do with it if you didn't eat it all. But you just kept requesting it, I figured that you were serious about wanting whipped cream."

"You _hate_ whipped cream?" he inquired as he shook the can. "That's impossible."

Scoffing, James replied, "I assure you that it is most possible for me to hate whipped cream. It tastes disgusting."

John blinked as he heard this. Suddenly, an idea washed over him. An idea that he couldn't quite shake no matter how much he might want to. "Oh, James, I'm afraid you're mistaken," he responded matter-of-factly. He slowly strolled back over to the sofa. "You don't have to _eat_ whipped cream in order to enjoy it. There are plenty of other ways to enjoy whipped cream."

James looked back at him in surprise and a touch of confusion. Popping the top off, John quickly placed a dot on James's nose. Just as James went to object, John leaned down and licked it away before grinning. A second passed between the two of them before James's eyes widened in realisation. "Now that _is_ interesting," he hummed, smirking. "I suppose that I might be persuaded to inform you that I was wrong. But I'm afraid that you're going to have to try a bit harder than that."

Raising an eyebrow, John clambered over the sofa and straddled him. "Oh, I ensure you that _that_ was only the beginning." He grinned mischievously. "But first, you're going to have to strip."

Much to his surprise, James didn't argue with him. Instead, his hands shifted up to his shirt, and he began to slowly unbutton it. John watched eagerly as more skin was revealed. Subconsciously, he licked his lips and only realised he had done so after he saw James smirk. Flushing slightly, John dipped down and kissed him. Immediately, James opened his mouth, allowing John slip inside. John hummed in satisfaction as he explored James's mouth carefully and precisely before pulling back. James shifted up enough to remove his shirt before relaxing into the sofa. By now, the movie had become just background noise.

"Trousers, too?" he pressed, grinding up. John gasped when he felt James's erection press into him. "Because that might be a little hard, considering our position."

Rolling his eyes, John got off James entirely. "Trousers, too."

James reached down and slowly unbuttoned them before sliding them off centimetre by centimetre. His pants were tented from his erection, and John swallowed involuntarily as he looked down at them. Quickly, his eyes flickered back up to James's face. James was smirking still. "And the pants?"

"And the pants," John confirmed.

James thrust his hips up on purpose as he slid the pants down. His erection sprang out proudly. As soon as the pants were down, John moved over only for James to shove him back. "No. You're not allowed to touch me until you are just as naked as I am," he objected.

Grumbling under his breath, John set the can of whipped cream on the table before he quickly stripped himself of his clothing. Unlike James, he didn't make a show of it. By now, he was too aroused to just take his time. Besides, he needed this. After what happened during their last coupling, he needed to be in control. James probably already knew this, and that's why he didn't object to John taking over for once. Once naked, he reached over and snatched up the whipped cream. "Wherever you want me to lick, mark it. And do your best not to cover your whole body. If you get me sick, I'll never want whipped cream again, and then we'll never be able to do this again either. And you don't want that, do you?"

"I've yet to decide on that matter," James jested as he took the can. Without a word, John knelt down next to the sofa and watched. James sprayed a small line by his Adam's apple and another one on his clavicle. Two dots marked his nipples and one his belly button. And then he paused above his cock and murmured, "Do I really have to go so far, or is it obvious by now?"

"Humour me," John responded earnestly, waiting for James to make his move.

James shook his head and sprayed a stripe up the length of his cock. "Better move fast," he warned, grinning up at John.

John, of course, needed no other invitation. Instantly, he scooted up and descended upon James's neck. He carefully licked away the bit of whipped cream there, moaning as he tasted it, before nipping teasingly at James's skin. Despite himself, James let his breath hitch at the feeling of teeth against his skin. After a few more laps to ensure that the neck was clean, John shifted down and nibbled at the whipped cream on James's clavicle, making sure to graze the skin in the process. James gasped softly and let his head fall back, much to John's pleasure. It was always nice to get a response, knowing that James tried so hard to keep everything to himself only to fail. He then dragged his tongue across the entirety of the bone, eating what was left. James's breathing by now had become somewhat uneven. John bit at the skin, and James's hips shifted forward a touch. After a moment of processing everything, John bit down onto James's shoulder.

"Oh, fuck!" James exclaimed, going rigid.

At first, John worried he might have misinterpreted everything. He had thought that James might not actually like it a little rough. That maybe James didn't want to be marked or claimed somehow in return. But after he pulled back and saw the look of unadulterated lust on James's face, he knew that his guess had been right. He gently kissed the mark he just made before shifting down. Already, the whipped cream was starting to melt a bit, forcing John to lick up what was trailing down James's sides before proceeding. Latching onto one nipple, he sucked the whipped cream away before nibbling at it until it became erect. He quickly shifted over to the other one and repeated the process. Only this time, his hand lightly pinched and teased the other one. James arched his back, letting out a soft, low moan of appreciation. Smirking, John released the nipples before kissing his way down James's chest and stomach. He hovered above the filled belly button and glanced up at James for but a second. The whipped cream was now partly melted inside his belly button. Lightly, he flicked his tongue out and barely touched the top of the whipped cream with it. His eyes remained locked on James's face as he slowly dipped his tongue entirely inside and lapped the whipped cream up. Instead of finding James staring down at him with half-lidded eyes and his mouth slightly dropped, John found a man on the verge of laughter. Then suddenly, he began to giggle. John froze a moment, not understanding and a bit hurt by the response.

"Ticklish," James explained. "Didn't know until now."

Pride restored, John smirked before licking the inside of his belly button more. James started laughing hysterically as he did so, asking John to stop. He thrashed underneath John as he pinned him down. Hands braced against John's shoulder, he pushed down in an attempt to get John off him. The attempt was feeble as his body wracked with laughter. Suddenly, he thrust his hips up in an attempt to throw John off. John remained firmly locked, however, bound and determined to finish what he started. Once he could barely taste the whipped cream anymore, he complied with the wish. James was gasping for breath now, and he tried his best to glare down at John only to fail.

"Something to say?" John pressed.

"You're a git."

Raising an eyebrow, John clambered onto the sofa, positioned himself between James's legs, and replied, "A git who's about to suck your cock."

James looked like he was about to retort when John dragged his tongue across the glans. After that point, it seemed that James lost his train of thought, his hands flying down to lace themselves in John's hair. The whipped cream had half-melted, dripping down James's cock and onto his balls and inner thighs. Swooping down, John quickly cleaned up what was dripping, causing James to moan and spread his legs that much further. He shifted back up to James's erection and slowly licked from top to bottom, only removing about a centimetre of whipped cream with every swipe. By the time he reached the base, James was practically humping the air. His hands tightened in John's hair, and he couldn't help but smile as he watched James fight for control over his body. Slowly, he shifted up and wrapped his lips around James's cock before sliding halfway down and sucking up. James let out another small moan and bucked up, causing John to pull off entirely.

"Not this time," he stated. "This time, I get to suck you as I want."

James groaned as he heard this, but he relented nonetheless. His hands left John's hair gripped the sofa underneath him as John resumed sucking. Going down only halfway required for him to make up for the missing distance with one hand. In the meantime, his other hand began to fondle and knead James's bollocks. James arched his back in order to keep himself from thrusting as John did so. John poked the tip of his tongue at the slit of James's erection before sinking back down. This time, however, he went all the way to the bottom and used a bit of teeth as he dragged up the shaft. James went rigid underneath John, and he felt James twitch in his mouth. He was getting close to the edge. Wanting nothing more than to see James tip over, John slammed his mouth down to the base again and swallowed around James's cock, causing his mouth and throat to constrict around it. James shook underneath John, and John repeated the movement once more.

"J-John," James called out breathlessly.

He knew exactly what was trying to be conveyed. Giving a rough suck up, he used his teeth again. James went tense underneath him before screaming as he came into John's mouth. Instinctively, John swallowed the bitter seed as he continued to suck James through his orgasm. As soon as he was spent, James collapsed into the sofa. He was panting and dishevelled, and it looked incredibly fitting. Smirking, John lapped at what was left over before pulling up and away. He spat in his own hand and sat back, idly stroking his own erection as he watched James try to regain himself.

"So? Do you hate whipped cream now?"

Chuckling, James answered, "It still tastes awful."

"But do you hate it?" John pressed.

A moment of silence passed between them before James murmured, "No. I don't hate it anymore."

John smiled smugly as he heard this. So he had won, although that hardly came as a surprise anymore. Suddenly, James leaned forward and batted John's hand away from his own erection. He gave it a few strokes, and John gasped, leaning back and bucking up into James's hand. A pair of teeth grazed at his exposed neck, and he reached up to lace his fingers through James's hair. Meanwhile, his hips found a nice rhythm. James stilled his hand and tightened it, allowing John to have control and fuck it as he pleased Their lips met, and the kiss was surprisingly tender. Their tongues swiped at each other before sliding past. Neither of them fought for dominance, as that was not what this was about. Of course, John wasn't entirely sure anymore what it was about, but he was hardly going to complain.

James gave a twist of his wrist before swiping his thumb across the sensitive glans, causing John to let out a muffled moan. His next thrust came a bit harder and faster than the previous ones, prompting James to repeat the action. Before he knew it, John was practically screaming into the kiss and coming hard into James's hand. Their mouths broke apart, both of them panting. Glancing over at the telly, John noticed that they had missed a good half an hour of the movie. He let out a sigh and glanced back to find James watching the television with a little more interest this time.

"We might have to watch Bond a bit more often if it makes you this assertive and adventurous," James declared somewhat jokingly. He looked back over at John with a bright smile.

John scoffed. "You should have told me earlier that you wanted someone more assertive. How was I to know? After all, you have a tendency to just take over a situation. Actually, I believe you once said something about preferring to act before needing to react."

"It wouldn't kill you to try to take over every now and again, though," James pointed out, his mind obviously clearing up from the haze of hormones. Even his eyes were becoming a bit clearer. "Keep me on my toes."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Do that," James ordered lightly before shifting uncomfortably. "I need to take a shower."

John smirked slightly as he heard this. "Go for it then. But you owe me an hour of Bond after you get out. I'm holding you to your promise, James, whether you like it or not."

"I owe you a half an hour of Bond at the most. I will have you know that I did manage to get through an obscene amount before _you_, may I point out, decided to change the activity from movie watching to sex."

James had a point with that one. Not even John could deny that. "Forty minutes."

"Thirty-five," James negotiated.

"Thirty-five and Italian for dinner," John countered, seeing how far he could push this. Besides, he had been craving Italian for the last couple of days. It was just one of those random urges he got now that he wasn't in total control of his own meals.

James pressed his lips together for a long moment, as if he was seriously debating whether or not to agree. Of course, John knew that it was all an act. Italian take away was hardly a hassle for James. After a long moment of silence, James conceded, "Fine. But you have to call it in."

"Why me?" John inquired, more interested in the answer than put-off by the request.

Shrugging, James responded, "I have my reasons. You order the food, and we have a deal."

"Deal," John gave in, his curiosity growing. "Will you ever tell me why you're forcing me to order?"

James shrugged as he rose to his feet. "Maybe. Maybe not. Could be that you figure it out all by yourself. Could be that someone else tells you. Who knows? I have faith in you, though. I think you could work it out on your own if you really wanted to." With that, he stretched and headed off to the bathroom.

John watched the door shut before he let himself get lost in his thoughts. What was the point of James letting him order dinner? Maybe it had something to do with Mycroft. But that would be assuming that Mycroft had the time and resources to bug all of the restaurants in London, which John was sure he didn't. So then maybe it was to goad Mycroft later on, once John was released. After all, James had used that excuse all the other times he took John out.

Suddenly, it hit him. John stared at nothing for a long moment as the thought drifted over his consciousness. James was making a statement, but not to Mycroft. No. This wasn't about Mycroft anymore. He was making a point to John. This was a mark of trust. Heart swelling, John couldn't help but smile softly as he realised what was going on. James trusted him to not try to escape, and that meant a lot to John. After all, James couldn't even trust his employees. Save for Moran, of course. But he felt like he could trust John. And that very fact also pained John as he remembered that this was all temporary. That his time here at this flat would expire, and it wouldn't matter how much James came to trust him. He would be returned home to 221B, and everything he had gained here would be lost. But then again, he would have Sherlock and Mrs Hudson back. He would get to travel wherever whenever and enjoy his banter with Lestrade and his work at the clinic again. Besides, he wouldn't want to be kept for the rest of his life. That much he was sure on. Even so, he wished there was a way to merge both lives. With a sigh, John buried his face in his hands and cursed himself once more for falling in love with such a complicated man.


	15. White Pawn to D6, Black King to F8

"Are you being serious?" John inquired, slightly flabbergasted.

They had been in the middle of prepping – and just before John was on the verge of begging to be taken – when James had informed him that he wanted to tie John's hands to the headboard. Even now, John still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the situation. It wasn't as if he wasn't a bit adventurous in bed, but he had never allowed himself to lose such control before with a partner. What James was asking of him was new. Naturally, he was a bit hesitant.

"You said you trusted me," James pointed out, holding his tie in one hand as his other one continued to stretch John out.

Shifting slightly, John responded, "That's true, but this isn't a matter of trust."

"Yes, it is," James cut in.

"No, it's not. It's a matter of me feeling comfortable about this."

James frowned. "Which you would feel comfortable with if you trusted me."

"It's not that simple, and you know it," John objected before James purposefully hit his prostate. Gasping, he arched his back and instinctively bucked down onto James's hand. "You teasing bastard!" he cursed as he felt James then start to strike around his prostate instead.

Smirking, James pressed, "Is that a 'yes' or a 'no' then?"

John paused a moment, able to block everything out long enough to think. Technically, it had been four days since James grabbed John's shoulder during sexual intercourse. Four days for them was like four months for other people. They just couldn't live on the same time schedule, all things considered. And it was true that John trusted James to an extent. By now, he honestly didn't believe that James would tie him up, fuck him hard, and then leave John strapped down once he was through. "You have to agree to release me the moment I ask you to," John finally responded.

James's eyes lit up excitedly, and he nodded his head. "Of course," he concurred, removing his hand from John's arse. "Hands through the headboard." The headboard itself was wooden with different sized rectangles and squares cut out of it. Although John didn't understand how it was practical, as it wasn't always the most comfortable thing to lean against, he could understand why James would want it if he enjoyed tying up his partners in bed. Sliding his hands through two openings, John waited in anticipation. James's hands moved swiftly, looping his tie twice, setting the two loops slightly over one another, and drawing the two sides in and through in order to create what appeared to be rope handcuffs. He slid his hands through before hooking each loop around one of John's hands and pulling them tight. "Secure?" he inquired after a couple of moments.

John pulled at the restraints lightly at first before really giving them a few hard tugs. "Secure," he confirmed before looking down at James.

Once their eyes met, James let out a moan, swooping down and capturing John's lips with his own. Tongues slid across one another playfully, and John leaned up as much as he could in order to return the kiss. Slowly, James broke away before reaching over and grabbing the lube again. He slicked himself, hissing in need as he gave himself a few hard strokes, before sinking down John's body once more. His hands pushed up on John's legs, forcing them up and apart more and leaving John vulnerable. Sucking in a deep breath, John watched as James lined himself up with John's entrance and gradually breached into John's body. He tossed back his head and let out a moan as he felt himself being filled again. How he had ever gone without this was beyond him. By now, James had come to fit inside him perfectly, and he knew exactly how to touch John to get and keep him going.

"You look perfect like this," James stated as he slowly thrust in and out of John's body. John was surprised that he was actually speaking. "Tied up. At my mercy. I could do whatever I wanted to you right now, and all you would be able to do is take it." John knew this was all true. Honestly, he should be frightened by the fact that he had given control to James Moriarty, of all people, but the adrenaline that rushed through him was from ecstasy, not fear. Suddenly, James gave a sharp snap of his hips into John's body, and he gasped in response. "If I wanted to, I could fuck you so slowly that you _begged_ me to take you harder… faster…" Another sharp thrust complimented that statement, and John arched his back as his prostate was finally stimulated. For once, he realised just how fortunate it was for him that James didn't make too much noise in bed. He wasn't sure that he would be able to handle all this sex with the images that James was providing him with pushing him that much closer to the edge. "But I suppose I should save that for another time."

With that, John felt a slicked hand wrap around his weeping erection. James began to stroke him as his thrusts became faster and rougher. Moaning, John yanked down on his restraints, trying desperately to break them in order to touch James – to grab him – to claw at him – to bring him closer. However, the knot remained strong, and John found that he was truly at James's mercy. James pounded into him, just the way John liked to be taken, as he tried to strike the prostate whenever possible. Meanwhile, his hand stroked John, giving a twist of his wrist up the shaft and then a flick of thumb at the sensitive tip. John was a moaning, writhing mess. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he should buck down onto James's cock or thrust up into his hand. All he knew was that he was reaching his climax much sooner than he wanted or anticipated. Tensing up, John called out James's name desperately as he tried to convey what was happening. James grunted in response before stroking John harder. Finally, that tight coil in his stomach came undone, and he screamed out James's name as he covered his own stomach with his seed.

As soon as John came down from his orgasm, James's hands both locked firmly on his hips. John had just enough sense about him to keep his arse tight for James's pleasure. Pounding into him harder now than before, James gasped and fought to keep himself under control. Before either of them knew it, he went rigid, slamming his cock into John's body hard as he climaxed. Moaning and panting out John's name, he rode it out before pulling out entirely. He reached down and removed the now soiled condom. After tossing it in the bin, he leaned back down and kissed up John's neck. His hands idly fumbled with the restraints, releasing John as soon as he could. Sighing, John brought James up before a long, languid kiss. He completely enjoyed the post-coital bliss that happened after one of their particularly rough encounters. Eventually, the kiss broke, and James collapsed on the bed next to John.

"We finally made it to the bedroom for once," John noted jokingly.

Chuckling, James answered, "I know it doesn't happen often-"

"Ever."

"-but I suppose a change of scenery was nice," he finished, as if John had never said a word.

A moment of silence passed between the two of them. "Thank you for compromising on the condom," John said softly.

"You didn't give me much of a choice. It was that or cleaning you out myself in the shower, which would take way too much time and effort."

Suddenly, James was cut off by his mobile phone ringing. Hearing the "Staying Alive" ringtone, John flinched and felt adrenaline surge through his system. His eyes were wide and alert. It was like he could feel that weight on his chest all over again. The bomb dragging him down and hindering his movements. Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to get himself to calm down. After all, he was in a bedroom right now. There was no bomb. There were no snipers. All things considered, he was remarkably safe.

Without missing a beat, James snatched the phone up from the nightstand and glanced down at it before answering, "Give me a moment." Lowering the phone, he looked at John questioningly. "What was that all abo-" His voice trailed as his eyes widened in realisation. "Oh…" he said softly, staring at John in fascination. "Are you really still bothered by that?"

"You strapped a bomb to me. What do you think?" he snapped back, crossing his arms over his chest. John had never spoken about that night to anyone after he posted about it on his blog. Part of him was relieved that some thought it was just an April Fool's trick and others brushed it off as a glamourized rendition of what happened.

James brought the mobile back up to his ear. "Unless it's an emergency, Sebastian, I'm going to have to call you back." He paused a moment before nodding and hanging up the phone. "I suppose that we should talk about this."

"It seems to be the elephant in the room, yes," John concurred as James slipped back into bed with him. He shifted away ever so slightly. He supposed that this conversation was bound to come up sooner or later. Honestly, part of him had wished that they had avoided it entirely until John left for 221B again. James looked at him expectantly. "Well, what do you expect me to say?"

"Actually, I was expecting for you to want something from me instead," James stated matter-of-factly. "Like an explanation."

John sucked in a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. "You strapped a bomb to me to get Sherlock's attention, and it worked splendidly. You two seemed quite excited to be able to see each other face-to-face at last. What more is there to explain?" he inquired bitterly.

Sighing, James reached out slightly but stopped. John was glad. At this moment, he didn't want to be touched. He didn't want any physical affection between them. "I had to use you to get Sherlock's attention. At the time, I had to make a statement."

"Oh? Do tell."

James glared at him. "I had to show Sherlock what I was capable of. The only way to get him to back off was to show him that I could take away the important things in his life. You happened to be one of them," he explained.

"And you couldn't have done that any other way?" John snapped, rising out of the bed in indignity. "I was scared out of my mind, James. Grabbed on the street by a taxi driver. Knocked out. Woke up to the smell of chlorine and with a bomb strapped to me. Beaten just a bit before you came in. Tossed into the mix. When I grabbed you and was forced off, I thought for sure that I was going to die. Survived Afghanistan only to die in a sports centre, of all places!" John was yelling towards the end of it. Finally, he was getting all that weight off his chest. He was saying everything he wanted to say and yet never could. And he was getting to tell it to the one person he wanted to hear every last word. "Do you know how long it took me before I felt comfortable walking around on the streets again? Before I didn't flinch when a taxi slowed down next to me? How long it took before I walked down the street I was taken from? And then when the nightmares finally stopped?"

James watched him passively, not saying a word in his defence nor trying to cut into John's tirade at all. Once John stopped, he waited a bit longer to make sure that he had nothing else to add. After a long moment of silence passed, he took in a deep breath. "What do you want from me, John? To apologise? Sincerely, even? It's not going to change anything, you know. It's not going to take away those sleepless nights you had. Nor is it going to take away all those frights you had on the streets. So tell me what it is that you're expecting from me? What on Earth could I possibly give you?"

"A proper apology would be nice, yes, but I just want-" John paused a moment, floundering a bit. What _did_ he want? James was right, after all. An apology would mean nothing to him. It was too late, and it would take nothing that happened back. "I just… I want a proper explanation, I suppose. Hell, why don't you just do that mind trick on me where you make everything alright?"

James scoffed as he heard this. "You mean tell you the truth that you so love hearing from me?" he pressed. "Because that has always gone over so well in the past."

"I just…" John started before shaking his head. "You know what? Forget I said anything. Just try to keep that bloody ringtone down, would you?" With that, he turned on his heels and headed towards the door. He needed to get something to drink.

"You caught my attention at the pool," James called out, causing John to stop. "I admit that I used you as a pawn before in order to get Sherlock's attention. I underestimated you. When I saw you on the ground being attacked and ridiculed by my own men… well… I just couldn't allow that. If any harm were to come to you, it should be in front of Sherlock. So he could see what I was capable of. Anything less would be counterproductive. Or, at least, that's what I convinced myself."

John remained with his back to James as he listened. He didn't want to see James's expression as it might throw him off. Tone of voice was enough. After all, John had a keen ear. He could hear the stress in each syllable – the pitch – the weighed words. As far as he could hear, James was telling him the truth. Closing his eyes, John remained silent as he continued to listen.

"To speak with perfect candour, I was intrigued by you. More so as the night went on. You were loyal. You were not just going to grovel and submit to anyone. When I felt your arms lock around me… It was one of the most exhilarating things I had ever experienced. Think about it, John. What if Sherlock had listened to your advice? What if he had left you as you requested? What would have kept me from killing you?" He paused a moment, letting those words sink in. "Nothing, John. Absolutely nothing. You would have ruined my plan, and for all you knew, I might have very well killed you in my anger. And yet you still tried to save the day. You tried to save your best friend even if it cost you your own life. And you were not even paid to do so. I can't even begin to tell you how fascinating that is."

John remained still for a long moment, waiting for James to continue. Only silence remained between them. For a moment, he took everything in. It was a lot of information. Hell, if John had been an idiot, he could have very well easily taken it as a love confession. But, despite what Sherlock told him, he wasn't an idiot. "I don't feel any better," he jested lightly. It wasn't the complete truth. After all, it had opened up his eyes a bit more as to what was going on that night. Seeing it from Moriarty's eyes was… refreshing, he supposed. But he had been right. It didn't change anything that happened.

"I told you that it wouldn't do anything for you," James pointed out. John heard a rustling from the bed, and he remained still as footsteps got closer to him. "But if everyone remained locked on the past, we would still be having crusades." He stopped so close that John could practically feel the heat radiate from James's body. "Come back to bed, Johnny. A glass of water is going to do you no good by now."

Hesitating a moment, John eventually relaxed and turned back around. James was smiling softly – or smirking. John couldn't really tell. "Fine," he murmured. "You should probably call Moran back anyway."

"Indeed," James replied. Heading back over to the bed, he put back on his pants and pyjama trousers before grabbing his phone and heading out of the room. John knew better than to follow.

Tugging on his own pants, John clambered back into bed and laid there. So he had piqued James's interest beforehand. Of course, it was only after he set his life on the line and without any monetary gain to boot. He supposed that he could expect nothing less from James Moriarty, though. Loyalty through fear could only last so long, after all. Eventually, people reach the end of their ropes and try to bite back. Moriarty always had to be prepared for that moment. So it wasn't surprising that he was intrigued by genuine loyalty. Even so, John would be surprised if Moran would betray Moriarty. After all, Moriarty probably was to Moran what Sherlock was to John. A life saviour of sorts. Someone to prove that there was a place in this world for them. That they were useful here. Because after the war, that fact was sometimes lost. It was hard to acclimate to civilian life, and just writing a blog sure as Hell wasn't going to help him do it. But running after serial killers and forgers and all manner of criminals? Well, it wasn't a perfect acclimation, but it would do.

Letting out a sigh, John closed his eyes. He missed Sherlock still, although that was hardly surprising. The first time John went overseas, it took him three months before he was no longer consistently homesick. After his parents passed, there was less of a reason to miss home. After all, he and Harry had never been particularly close, and he didn't have any other connections to speak of. And then Sherlock happened, and with Sherlock came Mrs Hudson, who was now like a second mother to him, and Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly. In fact, Sherlock had a lot more friends than he led on, and John had managed to make connections with all of them. His own little cluster of close friends. Hell, once he got back, he might just start taking Lestrade up on getting that pint he had been offering for a while. It would probably do him some good to get out and be with someone besides Sherlock or Mycroft.

Suddenly, the door to the bedroom opened. Deepening his breathing rhythm, John didn't move as James slipped back into bed. He heard the click of the mobile on the nightstand, and he shifted enough to get comfortable again once James was in bed with him. Very slowly, James shifted over and pressed up against John's back. "You're a terrible actor," he whispered in John's ear as their bodies slotted together. An arm snaked around John's waist. "Not that I mind, of course. It's always interesting to figure out why you feel the need to do certain things. Like pretend to be sleeping."

"Maybe because I wanted to go to sleep and not talk anymore," John responded sarcastically.

"Harsh, Johnny-boy. Harsh."

Exhaling deeply, he let his arm fall on top of James's. "And why are you suddenly so affectionate?"

"Easy. The song invoked memories that you would much rather stay hidden. Tonight has just turned into a high risk night for your night terrors because of it. Your night terrors stop when there's contact between us. And to be perfectly honest, I would like to get a peaceful night's sleep."

"You could always sleep somewhere else, you know," John pointed out bitterly.

James scoffed. "This is my primary flat. I have all right to sleep here."

"Then send me to a different flat."

Humming, James responded, "No."

"And why not? It can't be that hard for you, and if I'm keeping you from your precious sleep then you should just do away with me," John snapped back, almost ready to get up and leave.

James's arms tightened around, as if he could read his mind. "You've already made yourself at home here, and there's hardly any point of moving, what with how much time is left before you go. And then I would have to put up another security system into a new flat, which costs more than it should, really. I could probably make a better system for a third of the price, but that's just too tedious. Besides, I'm willing to deal with everything quietly. You should be grateful, not defensive."

John remained silent for a long moment, teetering on the edge of asking but not entirely sure he wanted to know. Finally, he inquired, "Have I – has it been bad lately? The night terrors, I mean."

James hummed in response. "Not last night, no. But the two days before that, yes. There's no need to worry, though. It's nothing that I can't handle, and they stop after a while. But as I said before, they don't start up if there is some physical contact between us. Hence this."

Sighing, John slowly relaxed in the embrace. "Good night then, James."

"Good night, John."


	16. White Queen to H5, Black Queen to E8

When James asked him if he wanted to go for a walk, John was only a bit surprised. After all, James had started taking John outside more often since they moved into the primary flat together. He supposed it was because they saw each other more, and James could see just how long John stayed inside at home. Although the video games did help, they were only entertaining for so long. Besides which, John had a tendency to get stir crazy even with all the sexual activity that he was getting nowadays. He just needed to stretch his legs every now and again, and James knew that. Hell, James even respected that, which was made obvious by the fact that he still took John out every now and again.

So there they were in the park, walking hand-in-hand in order to not draw attention to themselves. Being together was less suspicious than just two grown men walking through the park at night, according to James. John didn't argue with him, but shifted a bit, not entirely comfortable with holding hands. He had never been much of one for public displays of affection, but he supposed that it was something he could deal with right now. Besides, it wasn't overly affectionate. Just holding hands. He had done more with his girlfriends in public. Of course, at the time he had been nothing more than a horny teenager, but it helped him feel less self-conscious.

The park was less crowded at night, giving them some sense of privacy. Laced together, their hands radiated heat and yet refrained from being drenched in sweat. As they walked together, neither of them spoke, just enjoying each other's company. Eventually, John noticed a small playground that looked familiar to him. He paused a moment, examining it carefully, before everything came piecing back together. "Oh, God," he murmured in surprise.

"What is it?" James pressed, looking up in alarm. His senses were entirely alert as he scanned all around them for a possible threat.

"No, no, it's just… I used to come here as a kid," John murmured.

"Shocker," James noted a bit sarcastically.

Rolling his eyes, John responded, "My family didn't live in London, you git. And we weren't exactly rolling around in money, and our parents didn't have all the free time in the world. It was a pretty big deal for us when we got to come to the city and play in the park."

"Oh?" James pressed, sounding slightly interested.

John nodded and continued, "Yeah. Harry and I would beg Mum or Dad to let us come here and play. There were no other kids on our street, and since we didn't get along too well, we were starved for interaction with other kids during the holidays." He smiled softly. He had some great memories from this place. "I made friends easily when I was young. Just used to walk up to a kid and ask if he wanted to be my best friend. Never once was I rejected. Then I would go running over to Mum or Dad, exclaiming that I made a new best friend. And every time, they would ask what my best friend's name was. And every time, I would stall and stutter since I never thought to ask first." With that, he burst out laughing before looking over at James to find him barely smiling in response. His laughter died immediately. "Oh, God, I'm boring you."

"No, no. You're hardly boring me. Trust me, Johnny, I would let you know if I wasn't entertained. I'm not exactly known for being passive, after all," James responded. "I'm just trying to figure something out."

"Indeed?" John inquired curiously. "What might that be?"

James paused a moment before answering, "You said that you made friends easily when you were a child. Nowadays, though, your trust is hard to receive. It's unwavering once earned but difficult to come by. What happened to change that aspect of you?"

"What, have you been reading my therapist's journal as well? And she wondered why I didn't trust her!" he jested in response, trying to lighten the mood. James offered a smile but said nothing. Apparently, he was more than willing to wait for a proper response. "I'll make you a deal. If I tell you how I became so jaded, you have to tell me a bit about your own childhood. Because as much as I do love baring my soul to anyone who will listen, I would like something in return for it."

James frowned. "But you trust me," he pointed out softly.

"You're starting to make me regret ever saying that to you," John groaned. "Look, at the very least, you can give me a give-and-take sort of situation, alright? I'm not really asking all that much from you. Just a little trust in return."

There was a long moment of silence, and John figured that James would let the entire thing drop. Much to his surprise, though, he heard James respond, "Very well. You have yourself a deal."

Pausing a moment, John sighed and conceded. At the very least, he would get a glimpse into James Moriarty's childhood. "I was 13 or 14 at the time. During those years when you really start to feel the pressure to fit in. To become popular. To start dating the 'right' people," he began as they walked away from the playground. "I had plenty of friends and was generally well-liked. And then George Chapman happened."

"George Chapman?"

John nodded. "Yeah. I joined the rugby team, and George Chapman was basically the team leader. I'd never looked up to someone so much in my life. God, I thought he was everything that I wanted to be when I grew up – talented, athletic, intelligent, popular. I really thought he had it all. And when we finally started forging a friendship – well, I was just beside myself with joy." He paused a moment, allowing all of that to sink in. "And then the rumours started. They were whispered from person to person but never to me. About my sexuality – my family life – my financial standing. Slowly, my friends started to turn away from me over silly things that happened years before. And when I thought I only had George to turn to, he revealed himself to be the perpetrator. Did it all because he didn't like the fact that the girl he had a crush on was flirting with me instead… or something equally ridiculous."

James stared at John for a long moment. "What? That's it? Some guy betrays you, and you keep everyone three metres away for the rest of your life?"

Feeling rebuked, John snapped, "I know this might be hard for you to understand, but I lost _everyone_ during that time. Even friends I had known for years. It wasn't just George who betrayed me. It was all of them. So yeah, I stopped trusting every single person I walked by. I wasn't that little kid anymore who just made friends with random people at the playground. And I haven't been since. And you know what? There's nothing wrong with that. There's no reason I should feel ashamed that I don't just trust any person who stumbles into my life. And it's totally fine that I wait before placing my entire trust in them, alright?" With that, he glared at James, almost daring him to say something.

James blinked a few times, humming thoughtfully. "I wonder what Mr George Chapman is doing nowadays."

"Oh, no," John responded, looking Moriarty in the eyes. "No, no, no, no, no. You are _not_looking him up. You are _not_finding out how he's doing. And you are certainly _not_ ruining the life he has built for himself over twenty years after the fact."

Frowning, James pointed out, "But he hurt you. It's only natural that you would want revenge."

"No, it is only natural that _you_ want revenge. I, on the other hand, would much prefer to just forget that any of this ever happened." When James didn't say anything, John continued, "He's probably a different man now. A better man. And yes, he has forever altered who I am, but that doesn't necessarily make it a bad thing. After all, everything has a ripple effect. Who knows – maybe if I continued playing rugby, I would have gotten a scholarship and never joined the army. And if I hadn't joined the army… well, let's just say that I wouldn't be here, now would I?"

James pursed his lips but said nothing for a long moment. "A peek wouldn't hurt, right? Just to see if he has actually changed for the better."

"No, James, absolutely not," John declared. "And I want you to drop it. I let you in on a bit of my past trusting that you would respect it. Don't make me regret telling you this as well, you hear? Besides, it's your turn."

Clearly displeased by the end result, James scowled as they continued down the pathway. "What specifically would you like to know?"

"Carl Powers," John answered quite unexpectedly. He didn't know why the name had popped into his head, but it had, and he had said it before even thinking it through.

James tensed as he heard this. "You want to know how I got my start in consulting crimes then," he said, rephrasing it. John wasn't sure if James was trying to make it less personal or just have him understand what he was about to listen to. "I know this may come as a surprise to you, but I was bullied when I was younger," he started sarcastically. "My mother used to tell me it was because they were jealous of my intelligence. I know now that she was just trying to comfort me, but I was livid when I heard her say that. I mean, it was hardly my fault that I was born with such a high IQ. Nor was it my fault that none of the other students could keep up with the teacher. I accelerated through a couple years in school and wound up in Carl Powers' class.

"Whereas most of the other kids would just ignore me, Carl made it his goal to humiliate me at every turn. He was on the swim team and wanted nothing more than to be a hero, despite the fact that his eczema was more than a turn off for most of the other kids. He thought that by picking on me – the kid on the outs – he would be able to forge his own place as one of the class's elites. He used to bully me, humiliate me, and laugh at me."

James's grip on John's hand had almost become painful. "Take a deep breath and relax," he managed to cut in, rubbing his thumb across the back of James's hand. James glanced over at him and then down. Muttering an apology, he relaxed his grip once more. Blood went rushing back into John's hand. "It's fine. Please continue."

"I don't care to get back into exactly what he used to do. Basically, if you can imagine a bully doing it, Carl probably did it to me." James's eyes were distant now, slightly out of focus as they continued to walk. "I hated that laugh. His awful laugh. It sounded like fingernails against a chalkboard – high and squeaky. Like his balls hadn't dropped. It was the worst, John. The absolute worse."

Very lightly, John pressed, "Did you try talking to a teacher or something?"

"Of course we did!" James snapped, glaring at John. "What? You think that I – at 11 years old – went straight to the murder plan? Of course not! After all, I had never done something like that before. But I cannot remember how many times my mother went into the school to talk to the administration about what was happening to me. But the Powers family was wealthy and donated a lot of money to the school. Carl was practically untouchable, as far as the administration was concerned. Apparently, they needed the money more than they needed to keep their students safe."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply-" John started to say.

Shaking his head, James responded, "It's fine. Don't worry about it. I should have filled you in on that part anyway." He took in a deep breath. "So I decided that I needed to take matters into my own hands. I practically lived in the library for an entire semester, reading up on anything and everything. I researched the greatest murder mysteries, how some people never managed to get caught, and why others were. I researched different ways of killing – from stabbing to injecting insulin. But I had to make sure what I did was untraceable. And then I found the answer: Clostridium botulinum. Untraceable unless searched for specifically. Just put it in Carl's medication, and I would never have to hear his laugh again. So I did it myself – the only time I ever got my hands dirty – and I took his shoes as a trophy. I realised how stupid it was later. What if someone had figured it out? Not only would I have evidence taken from the crime scene, my fingerprints would match. It was from that moment I decided to hire others to do my work or to just consult and advise people on how to proceed." Although he had started this entire spiel in a monotone, he sounded more like Moriarty by the end, his voice low and angry.

John was slightly baffled. At 11 years old, James Moriarty was outwitting Scotland Yard. And yet there was a tragedy in that. James had been picked on as a child, and he had learned to fight back, but not in the way most kids fought back. He was backed into a corner and lashed out in a deadly way. For John, it marked a loss of innocence. James never really had a childhood. How could he? He was too intelligent for his age. So much so that he probably ostracised himself from not only the other students but the teachers and adults as well. From the sound of it, he didn't exactly make friends when he was younger. And after he started his consulting business – at the age of God knows what – he probably didn't see the need to make friends. A part of John felt sympathy for the man who grew up without any friends. But he didn't say a word. Pity would not do James any good now. But he couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if James had made friends – someone who would have stuck up for him against Carl Powers. Someone who could have kept him from taking a dive into crime. Or maybe they would have just been prolonging the inevitable?

"Let's go home," he finally said, tugging slightly on James's hand.

Neither of them said another word as they finished their walk through the park, hopped into the car, and headed back to the flat. They both walked in, kicking their shoes off in the entryway. Immediately, John headed over to the kitchen in order to get something to drink. James, on the other hand, headed straight into the bedroom. As John drank his water, he wondered when the silence would break. It was verging on uncomfortable now, but he still wasn't entirely sure how to follow up that conversation. Actually, it was more like a confession.

"John," James called out from the bedroom.

"Mm-hmm?" John called back. When he heard nothing, he set his glass in the sink. "Yes?" he called out once more, assuming that James didn't hear him the first time. And yet when still no answer came, he started towards the bedroom. "James, did you call for-?" he started to ask before his voice trailed.

James was laying on the bed, lazily stroking himself with one hand and three fingers up his arse. His back was slightly arched, and his breathing was coming out in ragged pants, John's name barely audible. Breath hitching, John swallowed hard. He blinked a couple of times, trying to memorise the sight in front of him. His cock was hard by the time he thought to start forward. Yanking off his shirt, John hurried over to the bed and let his jeans hit the floor before clambering onto it. He leaned down and captured James's lips with his own. Grabbing the lube from the nightstand, he slicked three fingers and reached down. James felt his hand and removed his own just before John slipped his fingers inside. Tight warmth surrounded him, and he expertly struck the prostate. Gasping, James arched his back and let out a low moan. He was already loose.

"How long have you been doing this?" John pressed, kissing the inside of James's thigh.

"Since we got home."

Confused, he pressed, "Why?"

James stopped for a moment. "You trust me," he said, as if that answered everything.

John spread his fingers apart in order to stretch James that much further. "And?"

After a long moment, James muttered, "If you can't figure it out from just that alone, you don't deserve to know."

John went to object, but he felt James grind down onto his fingers and whine in need. It was too much for John to handle. After all, he had a man practically begging to be fucked. A man who he had been desiring to take for a while now. A man who he thought he would never get the opportunity to take. Swiftly, he launched over to the nightstand and fumbled for a condom. He rolled it onto himself and turned back to find James practically on top of him. Gently, their lips met, and James licked John's bottom lip. Complying, John opened his mouth and let James's tongue plunge inside. Their tongues slid past one another, and John let out a moan as he felt a hand on his cock. The sensation was slightly stunted due to the condom, but he felt the nice pressure of a hand stroking carefully down it. Suddenly, their kiss broke, and James pushed John down into the mattress.

Just as John was about to ask what he was doing, James turned around and grabbed the base of his erection. He watched, jaw dropped, as James slowly lowered himself onto his cock. Slowly, he became surrounded by James's tight arse, and John tossed his head back and let out a groan of pleasure. James's arse tightened around him for a moment as he was taken in to the hilt. James was panting hard and seemed to be in a bit of pain. Sitting up, John wrapped an arm around James's waist while the other dipped down to stroke James's erection. He pressed his lips against James's shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he murmured softly, giving a firm stroke.

"Of course I know that," James snapped, shifting uncomfortably. "Just… just give me a moment, would you? I'll be fine in a moment. It just takes some getting used to."

John continued to stroke James's cock as they remained immobile for a long moment. And then James removed John's hand, replaced it with his own, and started to move. Reclining once more, John watched as James slowly began to ride him. It was fascinating to watch him disappear into James's body – to feel that hot tightness around him. It was better than anything he had ever experienced before. Letting out a moan, he reached down and rested his hands on James's hips, following them as James continued bouncing up and down. Slowly, his rhythm began to gain speed, and he started to make small noises – whimpers and soft moans. If he hadn't been listening carefully, John would have missed them altogether.

He wanted to convince James to lie down on the mattress and let John take him from on top, but he knew that James needed the control in this. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have initiated everything and remained on top. He would have allowed John to have at least some of the power. Besides, watching James ride him so passionately was one of the most erotic things John had ever witnessed. And then John couldn't help himself. He gave a small thrust up. James gasped and then let out a moan despite himself. Grinning, John gripped James's hips tighter before giving another thrust up. With that, James tossed back his head and let out another groan. John then began to thrust up into James's body at the same rhythm. James became more vocal than he ever had been before, moaning and panting and whimpering, as he stroked himself hard and fast. When John felt James's arse tighten around him, he gasped in surprise and ecstasy. James went a bit rigid, and it took a moment before John realised that he was fighting off an orgasm.

"No, no, no, no," John murmured, sitting up and stroking James himself. "Don't fight it. I want you to come with my cock in your arse. Come for me, James."

Moaning out John's name loudly, James came hard in his hand. John kissed his shoulder as he did so, murmuring sweet nothings in the process. Once James was spent, John removed himself from inside him and gently set him back into the mattress. He slowly entered him again and began to thrust into his body. Before long, his thrusts became wild and fast, and James was moaning and digging his fingers into John's back. Coming, John screamed out James's name as he rode out his orgasm. White flashed before his eyes as he felt the rush of hormones from release. Once spent, he pulled out of James and removed the condom, grimacing at the wet feeling still on his cock.

"John?" James called out as John got out of bed.

"I'll be right back," he promised before slinking out of the room. He popped into the bathroom and cleaned himself off really fast. Once he slid back into the room, he sauntered back in before kicking his pair of pants up and catching them in one hand. James grinned as he saw it. "I know. I'm a man of many talents."

"I'll say," James responded, wiggling his brows suggestively.

Rolling his eyes, John clambered back in bed. He yanked the duvet up and over them. Closing his eyes, he let out a deep breath as he felt the effects of post-orgasm take over his body. He was so tired, and he couldn't stop himself from relaxing and passing out.


	17. White Rook to F6, Black Pawn to F6

"Johnny!" James sang out as he entered the flat.

"Welcome home," John called back without looking. He was in the middle of a mission for the new game Moran brought him that morning. Finally, John was starting to understand why the youth were so addicted to games. Suddenly, John felt two arms snake around his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow as he felt teeth tug at his earlobe. "How may I help you?"

"There's no dinner on the table," James complained, pressing his lips into John's neck.

John chuckled and tilted his head to give James better access. "That's because I didn't know when you would be home. Dinner is in the heating drawer." Pausing the game, he turned and pulled back to look at James. "Did you honestly think that I would forget to feed you?"

Grinning, James responded, "No, of course not. I thought that you would forget to feed both of us."

"Git," John snapped back before James kissed him. It was chaste – only lips to lips – but enough to subside John's mock irritation. "Go set the table. I'll get the food out."

James pulled back and headed over to the kitchen. Turning off the telly, John slowly followed. He grabbed two hand towels in order pull out the lasagne as he didn't want to go rummaging around for the proper gloves. Once more, his nose was overwhelmed with the smell, and his stomach gave a hungry growl. He had wanted to eat earlier, but part of him still wanted to wait until James got back. It gave both of them the semblance of normality, despite the conditions that brought them together. Setting it out on the island, he opened up the drawer and retrieved a spatula.

"Smells good," James complimented as he hovered next to John. He held a plate in each hand, and he shoved one out for John to fill.

"Thanks." He cut out a piece of it and scooped it up. Just as he went to slide it neatly onto James's plate, it accidentally flipped over. "Damn it!"

James seemed amused by John's outburst. "It'll taste the same no matter what, you know," he pointed out. "It hardly matters if it's upside down."

"Yeah, I know," John replied, cutting out another piece for himself. "It just happens to look better right-side up."

"Oh?" James pressed, looking closely. "I didn't notice the difference at all."

Hip-checking him, John scowled and yanked the empty plate out of James's hand. "Arse." James grinned at him as he headed back over to the table. "Just for that, I'm not going to make you dinner tomorrow. You can fend for yourself."

"You wouldn't," James gasped jokingly.

"Try me."

Immediately, James set the plate on the table before dropping to his knees. At first, John thought that maybe something was wrong. He had seen people fall to their knees like that before due to a pinched nerve. And then he saw tears in James's eyes, and he lunged forward, symptoms and possible diagnoses running through his mind. "B-but John," James finally said, causing John to pause, "you wouldn't really just let me starve, would you? After everything I've done for you? Everything we've been through?"

"Jesus Christ, James!" John scolded, leaning back into the island. "You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack." James looked mildly surprised. "Get up, you sod. You're forgiven as long as you never do something like that again."

Rising, James pressed, "Scare you a bit there, Johnny-boy?"

"Did you miss the 'you sod' part of my previous statement?"

"No," James answered, sounding rather chipper about something. He sat down in front of his plate and didn't even wait for John to join him before he started to dig in. Quickly, John grabbed his own plate and went to join him. Yes, this was definitely nicer than eating alone. Just as John took the first bite of his food, James asked, "So what's something you want to do the next time we have sex?"

John sputtered and started to choke on his food. Downing half his water, he coughed a few times before croaking out, "I'm sorry. What?" His face was heating up as he replayed the question in his head.

"Come now, Johnny. It's just the two of us. There's no need to play coy. After all, I…" James hesitated, as if trying to figure out the proper way to say everything. "… appreciated what you did with the whipped cream. I just thought that if you had any other bright ideas, I wouldn't mind trying them out."

"James, this isn't exactly considered a 'normal' dinner conversation," John responded, trying to defend his reaction.

Groaning, James answered, "Normal is boring!"

John pressed his lips together. "Eat your lasagne and be happy."

James frowned and took a bite, barely chewing it before swallowing. Then, he grinned and said, "Alright, now will you answer?"

John wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or slap James for pushing it again. "Can't we just have a nice, quiet dinner?"

"No."

Sighing, John set his fork down. "What do you want from me?"

"I thought I made that quite obvious. I want to know what you would interest you in bed," James informed him, taking another bite.

"Here's the issue with that question," John responded exasperatedly. "I've been asked it before, and it turned out that it was a huge trap. I was supposed to say that there was nothing that she could possibly change. That everything was lovely and fine and dandy and perfect. But guess what I did? I told her what was really on my mind. What I would genuinely like to change in our sex life. She got so angry that she left then and there and refused to speak to me again. So if what you really want me to tell you is that everything is peachy-keen, which it is, then just tell me now. I don't want to make the same mistake twice."

James hummed thoughtfully. "How unfortunate for her. I certainly wouldn't have given you up over something so petty," he said slowly. "But no, I honestly want to know what you would be interested in. The whipped cream was a nice change of pace, and I was rather curious as to what other ideas were stored in that pretty little head of yours. Besides, I know better. I have no self-esteem issues. I know you're lucky to have me as a lover."

"Good to know I haven't bruised that precious ego of yours," John responded sarcastically. Even so, he hesitated for a moment and shifted uncomfortably. "What we've been doing is perfectly fine," he finally said.

Groaning, James leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with a hand. "C'mon, Johnny. Don't give me that crap. After all the closed-minded, simple lovers you seemed to have had, there has to be something you're just aching to try. What is it?"

"James," John objected softly, "everything's just fine. I'm not nearly as adventurous as you portray me. What we're doing is fun enough."

James rolled his eyes. "Just give me another peek, Johnny. Just a teensy little glimpse into what's going on in that head of yours."

John paused for a moment and thought about all the different things he would like to try at least once in his life. Almost inaudibly, he answered, "I've always wondered what it would be like to be gagged. Or blind-folded."

"Or both?" James prompted.

"Or both," he conceded for a moment before shaking his head. "But not until I've tried both separately. Because if it turns out that I don't like one of them then I would want to know that beforehand."

James leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful for a moment. Honestly, John wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know what James was thinking about. After a long moment of silence, he inquired, "So how do you like that new game I got you?"

Surprised by the topic change, John blinked a few times and had to regroup his thoughts. "Yeah," he finally answered. "It's really interesting."

"Moran suggested it for you. Said it would be good since it was single player by nature. I don't know exactly how that's better, only that it is," he replied sardonically, giving a small shrug.

John jested, "I know this might come as a surprise to you, but it was probably because I'm the only one playing."

Taking another bite of food, James waved off John's comment as if it was nothing. "What sort of logic is that?" he joked in return. "Honestly, I'll never understand how you ordinary people reason things out." He made finger quotes as he said the word "reason."

John grinned. "I don't know. I guess it'll just have to remain one of mankind's greatest mysteries."

James said nothing in response, merely taking another bite of lasagne. As they continued to eat, John couldn't help but wonder what he had gotten himself into. Because James was clearly planning something. He had that gleam in his eyes when a bright idea struck him. Honestly, John had become somewhat endeared to the look. But that didn't mean he was any less worried by it. As he put away the dishes, he let out a small sigh. Well, at the very least, James hadn't gone storming out of the flat after being offended by the fact that their current sex life wasn't everything that John would like it to be.

"God, I need help," John muttered to himself as he watched the credits roll. In two days, he had managed to finish a video game. Never in a million years would he ever think he would be able to say that. Glancing back at the clock, he noticed it was later than he anticipated – 7:03 PM – and he hadn't even started dinner. He was already addicted to video games, and he had started playing them not even a week ago. Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. He hoped that getting back to 221B would restore some order. After all, he could hardly afford to buy an Xbox and games.

Rising to his feet, he walked over to the kitchen. He had just opened the fridge to look at what he could cook when the front door opened. He looked back to watch James walk in with a bag in his hand. "Perfect timing. I was just trying to find something to cook for dinner. Any suggestions?"

However, James didn't answer him. He looked back to find James upon him in a second. Their lips crashed together, teeth and tongues trying to figure out what was going on. Stumbling back, John let the fridge door close as his arms instinctively wrapped around James's neck to draw him closer. Their tongues flicked at one another playfully as they began to move as a unit. The surge and retreat was perfectly executed, as if they had planned it all beforehand. Eventually, John broke the kiss and sucked in a deep breath. He went to ask what they were doing when James lifted up the bag. Taking it, John opened it and looked in. A ball-gag and a blindfold. It took a moment before everything registered in his mind. Without being prompted, James had gone shopping for him… because John wanted to try out these things.

"You decide which one we use tonight," James murmured in his ear, his warm breath tickling John's hair.

Smiling, John reached in and pulled out the blindfold. He wanted to be able to verbally object if he didn't like something. Besides, he had heard from a buddy that having sex while blindfolded had been the best sex of his life. John wanted to know just how true this was. "Shall we?" he pressed, glancing back towards the bedroom.

"We shall," James responded, tugging on John's hand as he led the way.

Stumbling behind him, John followed him, blindfold in hand, into the bedroom. James took the time to close the door for whatever reason, and John looked at him in confusion. Even so, he offered no explanation for his action, as he turned around and tugged John's jumper off. As soon as it was removed, John felt a kiss pressed into his neck. Their lips met again, tongues batting at one another as John unbuttoned James's shirt and James undid his jeans. Both articles of clothing hit the floor, and John let out a muffled moaned as he felt James massage his erection through his pants. Shaking, he managed to unbutton and unzip James's trousers. Instead of letting them drop, however, he locked his fingers around James's pants as well and dropped to his knees, tugging both pieces of clothing down. James's cock was exposed for only a few seconds before John's mouth wrapped around it and slid down. He had just given his first long suck when James gripped what he could of John's hair and pulled back, causing him to let out a protest.

"Blindfold," James stated, pulling John to his feet. He shoved him back onto the bed before descending. He kissed and nipped at John's neck as he reached into the nightstand and pulled out a pair of leather restraints. Cocking his head, John went to speak only for James to cut him off, "Can't afford to let you ruin another one of my ties."

"The same rules apply as before. If I object, you have to untie me. Or remove the blindfold."

James answered, "I know. Don't worry."

John watched carefully as James tied one hand to the headboard. Tugging at it, he tested how it felt – not too tight, but not loose enough for him to escape from – and how much it would give. By the time he was done testing the first, James had tied the other. John tested it as well – it was a little tighter than the first – before he looked down to find James reaching up with a blindfold. Flinching slightly, John instinctively closed his eyes as the blindfold was put in place. He opened them to find only darkness around him. When James touched his stomach ever so slightly, he flinched again from the sudden contact.

"I-I don't know if I like this," he said softly.

James responded, "Give it a moment in order to get used to it. I'll tell you where I'm going to touch first so you know what to expect."

Hesitating for a moment, John eventually conceded. "Fine."

"I'm going to kiss down your neck and massage your nipples," James told him softly.

Even though he knew what was going to happen, John still gasped when he felt James's lithe fingers pinch his nipples. He arched into the touch and let out a low moan as James kissed his Adam's apple. James's lips were warm against his skin. Slowly, James kissed centimetre by centimetre down John's neck, stopping at his clavicle. Meanwhile, his fingers teased John's nipples until they were erect. He pressed his lips into John's collar bone.

"Now, I'm going to move my hands. I will always stay in contact with your skin, and I'll move slowly," James explained.

John felt those fingers slide to his sides before slowly trailing down them. It was strange to not be able to see anything at all, and he was clinging to any sensations whatsoever. For the first time, John realised just how long James's fingers were. How soft his skin was, unlike John's callused and rough hands. Then James's hands locked firmly on his hips, and he felt James sink down, his weight shifting in the process and causing the bed to dip down. Although James didn't say a word, John wasn't surprised when he felt warm breath caress his cock. He sucked in a deep breath as he felt James's warm, wet tongue slowly lick from base to tip. Meanwhile, his hands trailed further south, spreading John's legs apart that much further. James pulled away from John's erection, inciting a needy whimper out of him. Suddenly, he felt James nose his bollocks, causing him to jump slightly before he relaxed once more. When he felt a small lick, he let out a low moan. James's tongue lapped lazily at each one before taking one into his mouth. It felt particularly strange to feel his ball surrounded by wet warmth, and James's tongue swirled around one and then the other in a teasing fashion. John's cock twitched in interest, and John tossed his head back and groaned out James's name.

As a response, James pulled off and kissed each ball before kissing and nipping at his left inner thigh. Suddenly, he felt James's smooth, straight teeth pull at the skin. Those lips made a perfect circle before James sucked hard, causing John to groan in half-pleasure and half-pain. Meanwhile, his hand shifted back and cupped John's balls, fondling them as he pressed his teeth down into the flesh. No doubt it would bruise. He then slowly pulled away, and there was a moment of nothing before John felt a kiss pressed against the dull ache. Trailing kisses back up his thigh, he stopped before shifting yet again. John could feel the mattress dip once more, and there was a small flick of tongue at the tip of his cock. Suddenly, he felt James's lips wrap around his cock and slowly slide down. He felt that heat and wetness surround him, and he moaned low in his throat before pulling at his restraints. James's wet tongue pressed into the hard flesh as he began to suck. Gradually, James's sucks became faster and rougher, allowing his teeth to graze the length of the shaft once more. John let out a yelp and yanked at his restraints as he did so. Adrenaline rushed through his system. Without warning, James repeated the action, causing John to toss back his head and moan, thrusting up into James's mouth.

Out of the blue, John felt two slicked, long fingers slide into him. His arse tightened for a moment before he pushed out and forced himself to relax. After a moment of fumbling, James hit his prostate, causing John to scream out and buck into James's mouth. He felt James gag, his throat constricting around the tip of his cock, before he pulled off. The only thing that could be heard for the longest time was their panting as James continued to stretch John out. Just as John was on the verge of begging, James removed his fingers. He felt something blunt press up against his entrance, and he sucked in a deep breath as he felt his body breached. Centimetre by centimetre, he was filled up.

"James," he moaned out, pulling down on his restraints again.

James hummed in response. John felt the mattress shift again, and he had to lift his arse in order to keep James inside of him. Suddenly, he felt a warm kiss pressed into his lips. When they pulled apart, James murmured in his ear, "Oh, John, if you only knew what this did to me. To see you bound up. Blindfolded. So open. So trusting."

Before John could answer, he felt a sharp snap into his body once more. He cried out and arched his back, pulling down at the restraints. James began to thrust roughly into him, his balls slapping into John's arse. Yanking down at his restraints again, John writhed as he felt James repeatedly strike his prostate. Finally, he pulled one restraint loose enough to allow him to slip out of it. His arm flailed out, wrapped around James, and drew him closer. All of a sudden, a hand wrapped tightly around his cock and began to stroke it in time with James's thrusts. John was lost in the sensations, his nails dragging down James's back as he tried desperately to keep himself together. Unfortunately, he could feel that knot in his stomach begin to tighten. Before he knew it, he tipped over the edge. Screaming out James's name, he went rigid and tense, coming hard on his own stomach and chest. Ecstasy rushed through his system, and he barely kept his wits about him enough to keep himself tight for James. James pounded into his body until he also came hard. Riding out his orgasm, James let out a mangled moan of John's name.

Relaxing into the bed, John gasped for breath. He reached up and removed the blindfold only to find James disposing of his condom. Slowly, he turned and unbound his trapped wrist, rubbing it as he pulled it down. It was red from his struggling, but at least it hadn't chafed. Sinking into the bed, John closed his eyes and let out a groan. He needed to get up and clean himself, but he honestly didn't want to move a muscle. Suddenly, he felt something warm and damp touch his skin. John lurched, his eyes snapping open, and found that James had a hand towel. He cleaned off John's stomach and chest carefully before shuffling out of the room once more. Speechless, John lay in bed and felt his heart give a sharp ache. God, he wished these little things wouldn't affect him so much. After all, their time was finite. These small things just made him more attached – would make it that much harder to acclimate to his life at 221B again.

As he heard the sound of running water, he closed his eyes and melted into the mattress. His body was heavy, and he felt the familiar tug of sleep at his consciousness. The last thing he registered was the feeling of the mattress dipping down next to him and the duvet coming up to cover him.


	18. White Queen to H6, Black Rook to H6

"Could we go one night without having sex?" John complained teasingly as James nipped at his Adam's apple. Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure how James managed to navigate him back to the bedroom and onto the bed, but there he was: naked, pinned down to the mattress, and being teased, kissed, and bitten.

"Um… no," James responded, acting as if he had thought about it for a moment. "What fun would that be anyway, Johnny?"

Rolling his eyes, John playfully tried to shove him off. "I knew it. You only want me for my body," he jested.

James grinned up at him before yanking him into a bruising kiss. Their lips crashed into one another before the fight for dominance began. Every movement was precise – a tentative lick to lower the other person's guard, a lunge forward to claim the reward, a warning graze of teeth in order to force a retreat – but eventually James won. John was left breathless, gazing up at James with half-lidded eyes as he gasped for air.

After a long moment of just staring, James said, "I want to watch you prepare yourself."

The confession threw John for a loop as he stared at James for a long moment. Instead of reacting incredulously, he just burst out laughing. By now, he supposed he should be used to James's random demands in bed. Besides, it seemed important to James for whatever reason. "I've never done something like that before," he warned.

"And how is that different from everything else?" James pointed out.

"I'm just warning you in case I get a bit squeamish. I'm not used to being observed the way you observe me."

Cocking his head to the side, James pressed, "The way _I_ observe you?"

"Yes," John affirmed. When James continued to stare at him in confusion, he explained, "I'm used to be analysed and deduced. But it's always been scientific. The way you analyse me… it's much more intimate than that, for lack of better words. It's almost like you're studying me, trying to remember every noise and movement I make." Flushing, he shook his head. "I'm being an idiot."

"No. You're quite spot-on with that explanation." Blinking, James leaned back and nodded. "Very well. Close your eyes then. Don't look at me until you feel that you're ready to."

John couldn't believe he was about to do this, to be perfectly honest. In fact, the idea of stretching himself for someone else had never occurred to him until that very moment. And the fact that he was going to do it in front of that very person… well, that was just awkward. Honestly, he felt like he was an exhibition – something for James to look at and enjoy – while doing this. But he wasn't uncomfortable enough to object, and James had seemed impassioned enough to convince him to do it. He reached over for the lube and slicked three fingers. Then, he rolled onto his knees and reached back. He closed his eyes and buried his face in the pillow as he slowly slid a finger inside of him. The feeling was a bit awkward as he felt his arse tense around his callused finger. It was thicker than James's fingers and not nearly as long. And having both the sensation of being penetrated and the warmth tight around his finger was nearly overwhelming. Very carefully, he pressed around for his prostate. Gasping, he felt his cock twitch as he located it. He slowly slipped in a second finger, shifting uncomfortably as he stretched himself a little more. Quickly, he struck his prostate before spreading his fingers. The pleasure counteracted the discomfort. Before he knew it, he was slipping a third finger inside of him.

Panting, John struck his prostate hard and let out a moan as he spread his fingers and continued to fuck himself. He slowly turned his head and gradually opened his eyes. As soon as he did, he let out another moan. Watching him intently, James was slowly stroking himself. It took a moment before he realised that the strokes coincided perfectly with John's thrusts. With that, he let out another moan and gave a grind down onto his fingers. James gasped ever so slightly, clearly pleased and surprised by the new reaction. Suddenly, their eyes locked, and they stared only at each other as they continued to move in rhythm. By far, it was one of the most intimate things John had ever done. He was vulnerable, opening himself in front of James in such a manner. It was practically a display of his secret affection, which should have put him more on edge than it did.

"James," he finally whimpered out, trembling slightly as he struck his prostate again.

The name alone had apparently been enough. In a flash, James threw himself forward. He fumbled for a condom, barely managing to slide it on properly. Once he had, he reached over and snagged up the lube, slicking himself with one hand as the other reached for yet something else. John closed his eyes as he splayed his fingers out as far as they would go. When he felt something cold wrap around his free wrist, though, he gasped and jerked around, removing his fingers from inside him in the process.

"What-?" he started to object, yanking at the handcuffs.

"I want to test something," James informed him, cutting him off.

Raising his eyebrow, John inquired, "And what might that be?"

Much to John's surprise, James shifted awkwardly as he heard the question. In fact, it was all a bit strange. James normally always checked that what he was about to do was okay. With this, however, he had just gone for it. It could be that he thought that they were comfortable enough around each other to just start experimenting without verbal consent. Or – more likely, given by his reaction – he didn't want to talk about what he was going to do. It was personal, going by how uncomfortable he had become. Observing James, he waited for an explanation.

"I want to see if you can come from being fucked by me."

"Haven't we already proven that enough?" John joked.

Shaking his head, James rephrased, "I want to see if you can come from being fucked by me alone."

"As in…"

"As in, no one is going to be touching your dick," James explained softly, searching John for any reaction.

John's eyes widened as he heard this. It was… interesting, to say the least. And part of him was also curious as to how the encounter would go, all things considered. "You should have checked with me first," he scolded. "But I'll allow it. However, if it becomes apparent that I'm not going to be able to-"

"Of course," James stated, cutting him off. "You'll orgasm no matter what – if I have to grab your cock to do so or not."

Sighing, John relaxed into the mattress. He felt James nudge him, and he flipped onto his stomach. However, when he felt James draw his hand back, he jerked away. "No," he said sharply. "Not behind my back. My shoulder won't allow for something like that. Cuff me to the headboard."

James didn't verbally respond. Instead, he brought John's hands up. John quickly rested his weight back on his knees, and he hooked his arms through two of the squares and shifted enough to let James tighten the second cuff around his other wrist. Giving them a testing pull, he nodded when he realised that nothing was going to give anytime soon. He shifted awkwardly, feeling vulnerable once more. With any other partner, he wouldn't enjoy being at someone's complete mercy. With James, however, it was different. It was erotic and overwhelming, and it made John's blood race through his veins.

Suddenly, John felt James's wrapped cock graze his entrance. He braced himself, waiting to be breached. He felt a nudge into him, and he pushed out in order to make up for the difference in size. James moaned low in his throat as he filled John up. Breathless, John panted as he felt James's balls finally hit his arse, and he felt so full that he wasn't sure if he had stretched himself out properly. James gripped John's hips and pulled out slowly. He sank back into John and struck his prostate, causing John to moan. Gradually, he picked up speed until he was pounding into John's body, and John was writhing under James's rough touch. Desperate, he tugged at the cuffs as he felt James unerringly hit his prostate repeatedly. His cock was flopping around, aching to be touched. James's hips swirled and jerked, snapped and slid – always in a different way in order to take John by surprise. Gasping and moaning, John tried to buck back on James's cock.

"James, I can't," he moaned out, that knot in his stomach twisting almost painfully. Just a couple of strokes, and he would come.

"You can. You're so close. I can feel it, John. I can make you come," James panted out. He gave a particularly hard thrust into John's prostate, making John let out a sharp cry. "Two minutes. Give me two more minutes."

John found that he couldn't really respond as his prostate was hit again. Letting out a moan, he tossed his head back and his arms went slack. "James. James, please. Please," he begged as he began to tense up. He was so close to coming, and he just needed one more thing to push him over. All of a sudden, he felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder as James's teeth dug into his skin. Pain mixed with pleasure, and it was enough to send him over the edge. Coming hard, John let out a strangled yell. James pounded erratically into his body a few more times before coming as well. His moan was distorted due to his teeth still being clamped down onto John's skin. Both of them slumped down slightly, James kissing John's bruise as he released his hands from the cuffs. John gently pulled his hands down, checking them for any chaffing, as James tied off the soiled condom and pitched it.

When he felt James collapse back into the mattress right next to him, John hesitated a moment before sliding over and slotting his body against James's. When James, obviously startled, looked down at him, John explained, "My space is dirty because of your little experiment. The least you could do is let me sleep on your side tonight."

James hesitantly wrapped his arms around John. John could feel just how tense he was, and it almost got the point when John himself decided that this was a bad idea. Just as he was about to pull away, James wrapped his arms a bit tighter. "This is fine. I'm just not used to being so affectionate."

Pausing, John turned back around and stared at James's bare chest. He must wax or something, because his chest was completely free of chest hair. Slowly, he reached out and began to trace on James's chest. There was a long moment of silence before James began to chuckle, the laugh rumbling his chest. Surprised, John looked up and snapped, "What?"

"Plotting something there, Johnny-boy?" James teased.

Blinking a few times, John processed everything before laughing as well. He had been tracing out the cuts needed to perform an autopsy. "Maybe I am," he responded, still chuckling. "Maybe I'm going to be your demise."

"You?" James scoffed. "I've evaded every police organisation and several governments, including the British, ever since I began consulting. I have survived seven assassination attempts and an encounter with the one and only Sherlock Holmes. And you think that _you_ are going to be my demise?"

John responded, "Yes. Because you underestimate me. You know, you really shouldn't underestimate people. I thought you would have learned that after all this time."

"Wouldn't that be something, though. Manage to make it this far without dying or being caught only to be ruined by a former army doctor."

Grinning, John chided, "You would have it coming."

"I suppose I would." There was a heaviness in James's voice that John wasn't used to hearing. He sounded sincere.

Even so, John couldn't bring himself to comfort him. James had caused a lot of chaos and destruction in the world. How was he supposed to tell him that everything was alright? That he could repent? Hell, was he even interested in repenting? As far as John knew, James didn't feel particularly guilty about what he had done. He always had an excuse or reason for every move. So he didn't say anything, opting to close his eyes instead and just enjoy the warmth that radiated from James.

After a long pause, James pressed, "Is this what normal couples do?"

"Yes."

He hummed in response. "I suppose it's not terrible. I guess even normal people get it right every now and again."

"I'm glad you approve," John joked, smiling softly before nestling a bit closer. After a moment, he decided that he was too cold for his taste and began to blindly pat around for the duvet. A second later, he felt James shift. Something covered him, and John sighed as he felt the duvet start to trap their heat underneath it. Almost immediately, James's arms returned to their original position around John's body. "I've always found it nice to have some physical interaction after sex."

James snorted. "You should have told me sooner."

"Make up for lost time then," John retorted lightly.

Yet another minute of silence passed between them. "What else do people usually do after having sex?" James finally inquired.

Shrugging, John responded, "It's different for every couple. I personally like to cuddle. Others like to talk. Others like to just pass out. If there's something you would like to do, all you have to do is tell me. I'll try to accommodate."

"I suppose talking might be nice," James said after another pause.

John hummed in response. "About what?"

"I don't know. About anything – whatever you want to talk about."

Thinking about it a moment, John finally opened his eyes and replied, "Well, we're going to have to get a bit more comfortable if we're going to lay here and have a heart-to-heart."

"What's wrong with this?"

"I don't like putting pressure on my wounded shoulder for too long," John explained matter-of-factly. He gently shoved James down so that he was lying on his back. Then he rested his head on James's chest, feeling each breath and hearing his heartbeat. Instantly, he felt James's fingers run through his hair before resting on his head. He tossed an arm over James's chest and pressed up against him. In response, James crossed his other arm over John's, resting his hand on his stomach.

"If I knew it would be like this, I would have messed up your side of the bed more often," James joked.

"We would have stopped having sex." His head vibrated with the chuckles that rumbled through James's chest. "What? We would have!"

"You would have given up being fucked by this hot body just because you couldn't sleep on your side afterwards?"

Raising an eyebrow, John affirmed, "Hell yes, I would have. You don't understand how much I love sleep. Sleep should always come first in someone's life. Before food. Before water. Sleep is man's best friend. If I couldn't sleep on my side of the bed nearly every night because of our sex, I would have put a stop to our shenanigans."

"Shenanigans!" James echoed playfully. "You wound me with your words, Johnny-boy."

John rolled his eyes in response. "Is this really what you had in mind when you said that you wanted to talk?"

"No, but it is better than nothing."

John shifted a touch, repositioning his head so that it was parallel from where James's heart would be. "Any ideas as to what you want to talk about yet?"

Letting out a long sigh, James gently circled his fingers around John's scalp. It was oddly comforting. "I don't know. Tell me about something. Something that Sherlock doesn't know."

John was somewhat surprised by the request, especially since it had that little add-on at the end. He thought about it for a long moment, trying to figure out what he had not told Sherlock. Since they lived in such close quarters, either Sherlock deduced it or it came up during some event or conversation. Now that he thought about it, John realised that Sherlock knew him the best. Suddenly, he felt a small pang of homesickness and quickly shoved down those melancholic thoughts.

Finally, he started, "Sherlock knows that Harry and I have never got on, but he doesn't know why." He licked his lips and began to draw patterns on James's chest again. It was a bit of a nervous habit. When he was talking about something personal, he liked to have something to do in order to distract himself. It made it feel as if he wasn't as vulnerable as he was. "We're twins, you see. She's just a couple minutes older, but she never let me forget it. When we were growing up, she always got what she wanted while I never did. I guess it was because I was the boy, so they thought I needed less attention or affection. God, one year I wanted a drum set so I could learn how to play drums. Unfortunately, she wanted some super special doll house that year. Guess who won out? Because her doll house cost so much, I wound up with a clarinet instead of drums. I should have known better than to ask anyway." His voice was incredibly bitter as he spoke. He knew it was childish to still be so upset about something that happened thirty years ago, but he couldn't help it. For once, he had wanted to win, and he lost time and time again.

"I think the clarinet suits you more anyway," James offered softly, his fingers still making those soothing circles. "There's a bit more finesse that comes with the clarinet. With the drums, you hit something – in a beat, yes, and with different strengths – but you're more graceful than that."

"I didn't know you were such a charmer, Mr Moriarty," John responded jokingly.

James laughed. "I have my moments. But please, continue."

"Oh… well… she always had more friends than me, although her friendships never really lasted. There was always something dramatic going on in her life. She was a bit of an attention-seeker, you see. So it was always a love-hate relationship between her and someone else. If there wasn't drama happening then her world was ending. Actually, when she first came out, I thought she was only doing it for the attention. When our parents had such an adverse reaction and she still stood her ground, though, I realised that it was real. I, of course, accepted her for who she was. She might drive me a little crazy, but she's still my sister."

"Sounds like such an angel," James noted sarcastically.

John sighed. "We might have a turbulent history, but she's still blood. Besides, she's had a couple of rough patches since coming out. Dad wanted nothing to do with her, and Mum didn't really know how to please both sides. At eighteen, she left the house and moved in with her girlfriend Clara, who later became her wife. She started drinking soon after leaving the house and became an alcoholic. Then she and Clara wound up not working out, and they got a divorce. But she's trying to get sober – going to rehab and everything. It's been the first step forward she's had in years."

"How long do you think it's going to last?" James pressed.

"Piss off," John snapped back. He never liked to talk about the frailty of Harry's condition.

James stilled, clearly realising that he had said something wrong. After a long moment, he admitted, "When I was younger, I always wanted to be a professor. Mathematics at first. Psychology later on. Thought about taking on patients as a psychologist or psychiatrist. Only the interesting ones, of course. But consulting pays better and keeps me entertained, so I wound up pursuing that instead." John grunted in acknowledgement, still sore about the comment before. "I have a younger brother, too." This caught John's attention. "He's a station master in the west of England. Doesn't bring too much attention to himself, and we haven't contacted each other in years, so I don't worry about him anymore. Last I heard, he was recently married with a baby on the way. That was over ten years ago…"

"Why don't you contact him?"

Scoffing, James answered, "Besides the fact that it would do nothing but put him in danger? We've never been close. We were total opposites. I was incredibly intelligent, mildly introverted, and small for my age. He was – to be perfectly honest – stupid, extroverted, and athletic. In school, we hardly ever spoke to one another. He just hung out with the other football players while I buried myself somewhere in the library. When I went off to university, I broke off all ties with him. I contacted him once since then out of boredom. Once I heard about his frankly dull life, though, I just let everything drop. Hardly worth my time, anyway. Especially since he himself had never once attempted to contact me either."

"You're telling me that he could contact you on a whim?" John inquired sarcastically.

"I was taking care of our mother at the time. He had her address, so yes, he could get in contact with me whenever he wanted those three years before she passed. But he didn't," he informed John. Then he paused and muttered, "I've honestly got to figure out how you manage to be such a good sounding board. It's almost eerie just how much I tell you without thinking it over first."

Sighing, John responded, "If you're worried about Mycroft hearing about this-"

"I'm not," James cut in. John was shocked and speechless, looking up at James with wide eyes. "I wouldn't have told you if I was worried about Mycroft. Honestly, Johnny, do you think me a fool?"

John said nothing in response, still processing what James had just indirectly told him. And then suddenly, everything started fitting together. James trusted him – he knew that from when he was allowed to order his own food – but this was trust on a different level. After all, there would be nothing stopping John from spilling everything to Mycroft once he was returned to 221B. But James believed in him, and that's why he felt open enough to tell John everything.

"I'm honoured. Thank you."

"What?" James inquired, not following John's line of thought. Their eyes met a moment, and he suddenly looked surprised. A split second afterwards, he looked incredibly worried. The expression passed by so quickly, though, that John wasn't even sure if he saw it in the first place. "Johnny-boy, I know that you won't tell the Ice Man because my brother has nothing to do with this. He's not in my life, and he has a family of his own to take care of. You wouldn't be so cruel as to put all of that in jeopardy. Especially when he's an innocent civilian."

So it wasn't a matter of trust. John was crestfallen but managed to keep it from his face. "Ah, I see," he murmured, looking back down at James's chest. He closed his eyes, tossing a leg over James's in order to anchor him down. "I'm tired. Let's just go to sleep."

James hummed in response, his chest vibrating. Reaching over, he turned off the light before shifting slightly in order to get comfortable. John laid awake for a long moment, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. He had made a mistake by placing too much stock into what James was saying. Because of that, he wound up misinterpreting everything, which had actually hurt his feelings more than he expected. He knew that he had fallen in love with James, but it seemed to be getting deeper with every passing day. Part of him wondered how many days he had left of this while another part informed him that he didn't want to know. Honestly, John was glad he had stopped counting so long ago. It meant he wouldn't have that horrible countdown constantly in the back of his mind. He could enjoy every second of the here and now with James.

And wasn't that what really mattered? No matter how much time he had left, he knew that he needed to make the best of it. After all, they had just opened up yet again to each other. Slowly but surely, they were letting the other person get to know them not for their career choice or opposing opinions but for their personalities and life stories. Shifting, John pressed his head firmly into James's chest, listening to the deep, even breathing and the soothing heartbeat. Without him even knowing it was happening, his mind shut down, and he slipped into a peaceful sleep.


	19. White Bishop to H6

At some point, John and James had found a morning routine that worked for them. James would wake John up before heading off and taking a shower. John would go and prepare breakfast. Once out of the shower and dressed for the day, James would join him and eat with John before heading off to work. Then John would putter around the flat until James got back. They had just fallen into the routine as they spent random mornings together. And honestly? John sort of preferred it over 221B. After all, he and Sherlock failed to establish a morning ritual. John never knew exactly what he was waking up to: a "dull" morning, or a failed experiment, or – sometimes even worse than that – a successful one, or a new case or client. And although John enjoyed staying on his toes, every now and again, he wished he could just wake up and know what was going to happen. With James, that was never an issue.

This morning had been no different. He had made them scrambled eggs and toast. In fact, he had just started to eat his breakfast when he heard a knock at the door. Pausing, he waited a moment, slightly confused. James was currently getting changed in the bedroom, and there would be no reason for a guest. At the very least, he knew it wasn't Mycroft's men or an enemy. They would have busted down the front door in their haste. So either Moran was coming over or a neighbour needed something. After a long moment, he heard the front door open. Immediately, his brain began to go into overdrive. What if it was an assassin? He might have knocked to throw John off. Or to see if anyone was home. Although he knew he was being irrational, John instinctively reached over for a knife. The door to the flat opened to reveal Moran, and he relaxed, setting the knife back down. "I didn't know you were coming over," he explained as Moran caught a flash of the knife.

"Boss didn't tell you?" he inquired. "Thought I'd come visit you one last time."

"Before what?" John asked, somewhat surprised.

Sebastian looked at him in confusion. "Don't you know?"

"Know what?" John pressed as James came out of the bedroom. He glanced over for a brief moment. As soon as he saw Moran, James's posture changed. His gaze sharpened, and he stood tall and rigid. Immediately, John recognised the Moriarty façade. Slowly, he looked back towards Moran. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"You seriously have no clue," Moran noted, sounding incredibly baffled. John scowled as he heard the tone. Obviously, he didn't know what Moran was talking about. There was no need to rub his face in it. "Tomorrow-"

"Moran is going to Moscow for a job," Moriarty cut in sharply, causing both of them to look at him. "He won't be back for a while."

Blinking a few times, Moran paused before saying, "I thought the boss would have told you since I had been planning on visiting you one last time."

"I forgot," Moriarty said dismissively. "I was otherwise occupied when I returned home."

John went red as he heard this, and he avoided Moran's gaze as he turned back to the meals he had just finished preparing. Setting one plate onto the island, he said, "If I had known that you were coming over, I would have made you some, too." He picked up a fork and stabbed into his eggs, eating a bit as he waited for a response.

"I already had breakfast," Moran informed him, pulling up a seat at the island.

James headed around and grabbed a fork. He seemed somewhat tense, and John realised that Moran had never been around extensively when they were both home. After observing a moment longer, John realised Moriarty was trying to keep up an appearance in front of Moran, which hardly surprised him. Moriarty and Moran worked together, after all, so there had to remain some sort of professional air between them.

Eventually, Moran's voice caught his attention again. "I brought you a new game for us to play. I think you'll enjoy it. It's a zombie apocalypse game. All you have to do is kill zombies and not die. Think you can handle that?"

Grinning, John responded, "Yeah, I think I've got that covered."

"Good. Because I don't want to be saving your arse every five minutes today."

Snorting, John retorted, "If I recall correctly, I saved your arse more than once from an enemy soldier in the last game we played." He stabbed another bite of food.

"It was the least you could do while I was doing all the work," Moran countered jokingly.

John rolled his eyes and swallowed the bit in his mouth. "You're full of shite."

Moran grinned in response. Just as he went to go on, James stood abruptly. They both instinctively looked at him . "I see you two will get on just fine without me here. Just remember what I told you, Sebastian."

"Of course," Moran confirmed, nodding his head slightly.

James slid his empty plate towards John, who took it and put both it and the fork into the dishwasher. "Have fun playing your silly games," Moriarty goaded as he headed towards the front door.

"Same to you," John retorted playfully before shovelling another bite into his mouth.

James turned slightly and barely smirked at John before leaving the flat. Letting out a long breath, Moran responded, "I don't know how you get away with saying such shite, but you do and manage to survive in the process. I have to say kudos."

"Don't be absurd," John responded, waving the comment off. "By the way, what _did_ he tell you?"

Humming, Moran paused for a moment before answering, "Oh! He told me I had to be out of here by six o'clock. That he didn't want to come back to his flat just to see my ugly mug."

"He's got a point there. You're not all that good-looking," John jested as he put his own plate and fork in the dishwasher. "Ready to play?"

"Do you honestly have to ask that?" John went to head over to the living room when Moran said, "But first!" Pausing, he waited as he watched Moran head back into the entryway and emerge with a case of beer. "I brought this for us. Put it in the entryway since the boss thinks drinking before noon is unbecoming."

John snickered. "You do realise that he probably noticed it on the way out, right?"

"Probably, but he left it there for us, so I'm guessing he didn't have a problem with it." With that, Moran cracked open two and handed one to John. "Cheers!"

"Cheers," John managed, staving off his laughter long enough to take a drink. He then headed over to the living room, flopped onto the couch, and took a controller in his hand. "So what's this game we're playing like?"

It took no time before John and Moran were comfortable and slaughtering hoards of zombies. The game, although rather straightforward in concept, still contained a nice plot and subplot for each campaign. But the characters were painfully American – fitting, he supposed, since the story was set in the United States. Even so, he wasn't entirely sure if the one needed to have that awful Southern accent that raked against his ears. He was having enough fun, however, to let that all slide. Moran and he made a dangerous duo in this game, as most of the zombies had no concept of stealth. They supported each other well, as a team should be. The entire time, neither of them said a negative word towards the other. Not even in a joking manner. Before John knew it, they had completed three campaigns and were going onto their last one.

"Enjoying yourself?" Moran inquired as he fiddled with the settings.

John took another swig of beer. "Yeah," he responded, setting his half-full can down next to the empty ones. Moran was drinking two to his one, and he was slightly in awe of Moran. After all, John's tolerance for alcohol had always been on the low side, which was why he didn't drink too much. Leaning back into the seat, he watched as the short cut scene started. "I'm surprised you wanted to see me before we parted ways. Although I really shouldn't be. I mean, look at me. I'm the best mate a guy could have!" he joked.

Grinning in return, Moran said, "I actually had another motivation to come here today."

"Oh?" He paused the game and looked over. "And what might that be?"

Moran pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to John. "I want you to memorise this number. If anything happens and you need back-up, I want you to give me a call."

Looking down at the number, John glanced back up and frowned. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"Right now? Nothing. But you can just never tell, can you? I want to know that you can contact me if you ever need to. I want to be able to back you up should anything happen. Be it a possible assassination or the need for a handsome date for a wedding."

Moran was trying to play it off, but John felt slightly off about the entire situation. After all, Moran wouldn't give him this information if he didn't think John would need it. Blinking, he looked down at the number. He quickly ran it through his head several times, trying to find patterns or mathematical methods in order to remember it. There were a few – enough to get John started. After reading and rereading the number for a good ten minutes, John set it down and recited it to Moran several times. He knew he would be randomly tested throughout the day and probably be left with the number in order to study it further, but for now, he had it down pat.

They resumed playing their game, working together seamlessly. As expected, Moran would randomly quiz John on the number, ensuring that it was instilled in his mind. As they wrapped up the final campaign, Moran slowly rose to his feet. "Repeat the number," he ordered. John did as he was told, reciting it perfectly. "Good." With that, Moran picked up the card from the table and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Wait, you're taking that with you?" John inquired, not having anticipated that move.

"I can't have you keep it."

Confused, John pressed, "And why not?"

"To be honest, the boss probably wouldn't like what I just did. Anything that connects you back to Moriarty is detrimental to the both of you. But I couldn't leave without knowing that you can contact me somehow if you needed to," Moran responded as he headed towards the door. "It's been nice getting to know you again, Watson."

John felt a strike of nostalgia. Offering a small smile, he answered, "Wish I could say the same thing."

"Git."

"Arse."

Moran tossed up a hand as a goodbye before he walked into the entryway, leaving John alone in the flat. This was all a bit much for him, and he wasn't entirely sure what his emotions were doing. Who would have thought that he would make a friend in this entire fiasco? Who knew that he would get _attached_to people? But what bothered him the most was that he knew this was only a taste of what was to come. For when he and James would have to go their separate ways as well. He hadn't been counting down the days for far too long, but he knew that his time was coming to a close. It had to be. Honestly, he felt like he had been staying with James for months, not just days… or was it weeks now? Bloody Hell, he didn't know anymore.

Tossing himself onto the sofa, John buried his face in the pillows and closed his eyes. He just needed to take a moment for himself. To calm down and recalculate everything. After all, he had Moran's number now. It wasn't as if they were completely separated for the rest of their lives. He was just a phone call away. Relaxing, John smiled softly. Until now, he hadn't realised just how much he needed that number – a connection – something to tie him down here. It made everything that much more tangible. And no matter what, he always had to remember that his relationships with Moran and James were genuine. Especially since he knew the hellfire that was waiting for him once he left the flat, and it was not something he was looking forward to.

Despite all of his thinking, John had managed to slowly drift to sleep. It was such a slow drift, in fact, that he hardly realised he was floating until he heard the door open and footsteps approach. Struggling to open his eyes and greet James, he shifted a bit on the sofa and reached a heavy hand up. Before it fell back down into the sofa, it was caught by another hand. John smiled softly as he felt those familiar fingers spread his apart.

"Move over," James called out warmly.

Groaning, John shifted to the edge of the sofa and felt James slide down the back of the sofa and behind him. He was pulled back as their bodies slotted together. James rested his chin on top of John's head, and his thumb stroked the back of John's hand. Humming contently, John dozed off again. He woke up once more and shifted, feeling James's arm tighten around him momentarily before releasing him. After blinking a few times, he looked over at the clock. 10:17 PM. He had slept for a good four hours at least, which he figured was bound to throw off his sleeping schedule. Stretching, he yawned and let out a low groan. James stirred next to him before sitting up and pressing a kiss into John's neck. His hand drifted across John's chest and down his stomach. After processing the movement, John figured that sex was hardly a bad way to wake up.

Pulling James into a kiss, John sighed slightly as their lips fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle. He pulled James up onto his lap and felt him instinctively wrap his legs around him. Suddenly, James gave a hard grind down on him. John gasped as he felt his cock begin to swell. Urgency rushed through him, and John knew that if they didn't get to the bedroom now, they would be fucking on the sofa again. He wrapped his arms securely around James's legs before standing up in one fluid movement. Breaking the kiss, James let out a startled yelp as John lifted him up, and John pressed a comforting kiss into his neck. His arms strained slightly – James was heavier than he anticipated – so he strode quickly towards the bedroom. Once they were in front of the bed, John set him down on his back before attacking his mouth once more. James kept his legs wrapped around John's waist as their tongues swiped and flicked at one another.

James broke the kiss and looked up at John with half-lidded eyes. "Take me."

John didn't have to be told twice. Lunging for the nightstand, he yanked out the almost empty lube bottle and a condom. He quickly slicked both his hands as James undressed himself. As soon as both were ready, John reached down and started stroking James's cock with one hand while one finger slipped into his body. James gasped, his arse tensing a touch before he managed to relax again. Carefully, John stretched James finger by finger, making sure he was nice and loose before sticking in another. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt James by being too eager. Not when this occurrence was so seldom. As he stretched James out, he continued to stroke James's cock, switching from firm and fast to light and teasing just to keep James wanting but not letting him orgasm yet.

Suddenly, James bucked down on his hand. "I'm ready," he rasped out, confirming what John already suspected.

Nodding, John removed his fingers and pulled back. He stripped as quickly as possible, needing some attention himself by now. After giving his cock a few strokes to subside the need, he rolled on the condom and made sure it was slick as well. He then slipped in between James's legs, lifting his hips slightly before slowly penetrating him. It felt wonderful, just as good as he remembered, and he couldn't keep himself from groaning out James's name in the process. James moaned in response, clawing at the sheets underneath him, as John sank in to the hilt. Panting, he struggled to keep his self-control as James shifted around a bit to get used to his size. Finally, James nodded signalling John to continue.

Even though James gave him the 'okay,' John didn't move for a moment. He shifted back through his memories, trying to remember how James had ridden him, as it would tell him how James preferred to be taken. Slowly, he began to move in and out of James, increasing his speed over time. He always made sure to aim for the prostate, wanting to subdue any discomfort James might be feeling. Despite himself, James moaned underneath him, writhing as he hooked his legs around John's waist once more. His hands eventually reached around John's back, fingers digging into his skin. John moved precisely – hard and fluid, but not nearly as hard as James would take him. If James wanted it harder, John figured he would say something. After all, he had never had a problem with speaking his mind before.

James moved perfectly with him. Every now and again, his arse would tighten when John struck his prostate, telling him that he was doing something right. James raked his fingers down John's back, causing John to gasp and buck slightly harder. Eventually, James reached down and began to stroke himself. It only took a few pulls before James was coming onto himself, moaning out John's name in the process. The sight – the sound – the feel - it was all overwhelming for John, who watched in fascination as James lost himself in pleasure. And to know that he was the one who sent him over filled John with a sense of pride. And yet… He leaned down, still thrusting into James's body, and kissed him gently as he felt that knot begin to tighten painfully. James responded eagerly, and it didn't take John too long before he spilled into the condom while letting his moan get muffled by the kiss. Groaning, he pulled out of James's body and sat back on the bed.

After a few more kisses, they split apart. Neither of them said a word as they went through their post-coital routines. John disposed of the soiled condom and cleaned himself up while James showered to get all the cum off his skin. But they eventually both wound up back in bed. John flopped down next to James, sliding under the covers. Closing his eyes, he let out a deep sigh, contented and now sleepy once more. James shifted next to him, and he cracked one eye open to see James looking at him. He closed it again before inquiring softly, "Is there something you need?"

"No. Nothing at all," James replied before shifting once more.

John opened an eye again to find James was facing the ceiling now. Letting the eye slide shut, he sank into the mattress, planning to drift off peacefully. James shifted again… and again… and then a third time… and then a fourth. Finally, John forced himself to look at James again. He had returned to looking at John, his elbow propping his head up. Snapping his eyes shut for the final time, John prompted, "Are you going to go to sleep, or–?"

Cutting him off, James responded, "No. Not yet, at least. I'm going to stay awake for a little bit longer."

"Well if that's the case, could you be still if you're going to stay in bed?" John inquired. His voice wasn't bitter – more so pleading than anything.

"Yes. My apologies," James answered.

Grateful for the apology, John hummed in acknowledgement as sleep tugged at his body once more. He was slightly amused that his plan for waking up actually wound up backfiring on him. In fact, he was more tired now than he had been when he woke up. As he slipped off, he felt the faint brushing of fingers as his fringe was moved out of his face. It was a strange sensation – one that was incredibly intimate – and he wondered if he had imagined it. Even so, he stirred slightly and smiled softly before finally falling asleep once more.


	20. Checkmate

Due to his warped sleeping schedule the day before, John woke up at six in the morning. He felt James sleeping beside him and closed his eyes, enjoying the presence as he rested for another two hours. Finally, James stirred next to him, which actually forced John to rise out of bed. He would make breakfast, as per usual… probably omelettes today since he honestly didn't want to put forth the effort for much more than that… while James got ready for work. Rising to his feet, he trudged into the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator. He yawned before reaching in and grabbing the eggs.

"What do you want in your omelette?" he called out as he opened the fridge once more.

"The usual," James responded as he headed for the bathroom.

John nodded and grabbed out what he needed – cheese, green peppers, red onions, and some sliced chicken – before proceeding to cook them breakfast. Just as James emerged from the bathroom, he flopped the second omelette onto the plate. "Done," he declared softly.

"Give me a minute," James responded. A couple of minutes later, he emerged in a button-down shirt and jeans. It was the most casual that John had ever seen him. Clearly seeing the confused look John was giving him, he explained, "What? I'm staying home for work today."

Still perplexed, John pressed, "Why?"

James examined him carefully for a long moment. "You honestly have no idea, do you?" he inquired rhetorically.

John replied anyway. "Have no idea about what?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," James responded dismissively, waving a hand as if to brush off the comment. He grabbed his plate and dug in. "I swear that your cooking has gotten better."

John smirked. "Considering just how much I have been cooking since moving in, that shouldn't be much of a surprise," he responded as he finished eating. Honestly, part of him couldn't wait to get back to 221B and cook there. Not that it would impress Sherlock too much, as he didn't eat very often, but maybe he could get a backhanded compliment. After all, he could only ask for so much when it came to Sherlock. Finishing his meal, he put his dishes into the dishwasher. "Did you leave any hot water for me?" John teased, knowing James would understand the reference.

"That was _one_ time, it was at a hotel and not in my flat, and I simply had to steam up the bathroom in order to clear out my sinuses. It's not my fault that the hotel didn't have enough hot water to last them the entire night and then the next morning. They should have invested in larger water heaters," James snapped back defensively. John grinned "God, I should have never told you about it."

Chuckling under his breath, John waltzed into the bathroom. He quickly stripped and tossed his clothes into the hamper. After checking for hot water, he jumped into the shower and took his time. He always loved taking a nice, long, slow shower whenever possible, and James could more than afford this little luxury for John. When he was done, he slowly trudged out of the shower. He shivered as the cold air nipped at his skin and quickly wrapped a towel around his waist after drying off enough. As he exited, he noticed James sitting at the dining table with his laptop in front of him. James glanced up before doing a double-take. John smirked before sauntering over, feeling up to harassing James just a bit.

"What are you doing?" he prompted, looking over James's shoulder to see his laptop.

Without missing a beat, James flicked his fingers over the track pad. Every single window on his screen flew off the screen, hiding from John's view. "It's none of your business," he answered a bit curtly.

John backed away immediately. "Sorry to tread in your territory," he responded. Clearly, he had ventured past his invisible boundary. He rounded the table and jested, "You really don't have to work from home, you know. Even without Moran, I think I can survive."

"I just didn't feel like going in today," James responded matter-of-factly, his eyes fastened onto his laptop screen once more. "So sue me." He glanced back up and gawked for but a second before forcing his eyes back down. "Go get dressed," he ordered.

"I'm sorry. Am I distracting you?" John inquired teasingly.

Without looking up from his laptop, James replied, "You know you are."

"I'll go get changed then," John responded, turning around and heading towards the bedroom. He let his towel drop slightly to show his arse, and he was rewarded by dead silence in the room. Trying to look innocent, he glanced behind him at James, who had already shut his laptop and was stalking over to John. "Something wrong?"

Instead of verbally answering, James stood in front of John and captured his lips in a bruising kiss. The two of them staggered backwards and into the bedroom. James ripped the towel away from John's body before pushing him back onto the bed. Gazing up at James, he watched as James ripped his clothes off swiftly before leaning down and kissing John once more. He reached for the lube, taking it and coating one hand. Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed John's half-hard cock and stroked it into a full erection.

"James," John called out in need.

James leaned down and kissed him softly. After he broke it, he murmured, "I know, John."

With that, John widened his legs to give James better access. He let out a low moan as he felt the first finger brush his prostate. Very slowly, James worked him open. Each finger slid in carefully, and each thrust precisely hit his prostate. Once he was stretched out completely, James slicked himself. As he did so, he confessed, "I want to take you bare."

John shifted uncomfortably as he heard this. He didn't want to clean himself out, which was something he made very clear to James from the get-go. "James," he started to object.

"Please, John," James said softly. "I'll clean you out myself if that's what it takes to convince you."

John frowned as he heard the touch of desperation in James's voice. Of course, he would never be outright with how he felt, and John was a bit baffled about why it was so important. He paused a moment. After all, James always requested permission – he always placed John's wishes first – and he had used condoms every other time. He let out a low sigh as James waited, clearly willing to accept either answer. John could say, "No," right now, and James would let it drop. But he couldn't bring himself to do so. Besides, it was a good compromise. John had objected to cleaning himself out, but if James did it, it could wind up turning into something a bit more fun.

"Alright."

James let out a long sigh, leaning down and kissing John yet again. "Thank you," he managed to say before flipping John on his side.

Before John could ask what he was doing, James slid up and inside of him. Gasping as he was filled, John shifted a bit. The angle was strange – like nothing he had ever experienced before – and the pace was slower than he was used to. James took his time to fill John before pulling almost entirely out and slowly thrusting back in. John gripped at the blankets before reaching down to stroke himself. Normally, he would stroke at the rhythm of James's thrusts, but those were far too slow. His speed was fast and rough, and he let out a low moan. And then his hands were suddenly batted out of the way. Immediately, he went to object only for James to start stroking him. Of course, it was in tempo with the far-too-slow thrusts. Honestly, he wasn't sure how much of this he could take. It was so different from their previous times, which had all been raw and rough. But this felt like a connection was being formed between the two of them, and that struck a chord deep inside of John. He didn't know how much more he could take. It was all too… intimate.

"James," he finally murmured, unable to take much more. "Please, James. Faster. Harder. God – _anything_ but this."

"No," James responded, much to John's surprise. "I want you to remember this. How I took you slowly. How it felt to be filled by me. How you begged for me. I want you to remember every second for as long as it lasts."

Shuddering, John went pliant. He collapsed into the mattress, letting James touch and fuck him as he pleased. But for the first time, he actually committed himself to remembering it. He felt every thrust into his body, actually taking in the length and girth of James's cock. He memorised the feeling of pleasure shooting up his spine as his prostate was hit. Moaning, he tightened his arse around James's cock, and everything became even more intense. John was panting hard, writhing underneath every thrust and ministration. Rolling his hips in circular motions, James continued to slowly fuck John. John noticed the knot in his stomach becoming tighter and tighter. Before he even knew what was happening, he felt himself tip over the edge into unadulterated pleasure. Moaning out James's name, John came onto the sheets. Despite everything, James maintained his slow rhythm until towards the very end. John knew his orgasm was coming when his thrusts became jerky and faster. Despite what he thought, though, James pulled out and came onto John's back instead of inside of him.

He blinked a few times and looked at James in confusion. "But I thought you wanted to come inside of me."

"I did, but I couldn't get the fact that you didn't want me to out of my head. So I didn't," he responded before leaning down and kissing John. "But I came on you, so my offer still stands."

John smiled as he heard this. "I can clean myself up, thank you," he responded.

"Doesn't mean you _want_ to," James pointed out.

Pausing a moment, John debated on his independence or an opportunity to feel that he was actually loved by this man. His resolve broke. "Fine then. Clean me up."

"Let's go for a walk," James suddenly declared, catching John off-guard.

John cocked his head to the side. Well, that was a new one. Then again, the park and café had been new as well. Maybe it was just James's way of showing that he, to an extent, trusted John. "Sure. Why not? Anywhere in particular or just out and about?"

"How about we just see where we wind up?" James responded. "I'll call a taxi and have him drop us off somewhere else in London. There's nothing to see here anyway."

Nodding, John went and fetched his shoes as James called for a cab. They headed down about ten minutes later to find it waiting for them outside of the flat. Without saying a word, they both clambered inside. John sat in silence, closing his eyes and just enjoying James's presence. It was strange how much their relationship had developed. Now, they were at the point that just sitting there with James was somehow soothing. Neither of them looked at the other person, each of them staring out his own window. Eventually, the cab came to a stop in a busy district of London. John was familiar with this part of town, and he emerged from the cab and took in a deep breath of fresh air.

"John," James called out, catching his attention.

Quickly, John headed over to the sidewalk. "Aren't you worried about Mycroft seeing us?"

"I know what incompetent people he has looking out for us," James retorted. "Besides…" He pulled out a London cap and shoved it onto John's head, tugging it down by the bill teasingly. By the time John looked back up, James was putting on a matching one. "You make a lovely tourist," he jested, grinning.

"At least one of us does," John joked in return.

Holding out his hand, James responded, "Come on then, you git."

John chuckled and grabbed it instinctively. Of course, it served as merely a guise. James had explained it thoroughly the last time they had gone out. Mycroft's people shouldn't be looking for John, as it made no logical sense for John to be allowed out and about, but in case they were to stumble across someone who was the same size and shape as John Watson, they would be thrown off by the holding hands with another man. Since John verbally objected again and again to being gay, they would have no cause to send someone in to get a closer look. That had been, of course, under the assumption that they spotted John at all. In fact, this was the first time that John was in an area where he knew CCTV cameras were set up. Normally, Moriarty was a lot more careful about taking John out and about. Something was different about today. He just didn't know what.

"Is it your birthday today?" John inquired suddenly.

Looking at him in confusion, James asked, "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you said that I didn't realise something earlier today, and this is hardly a normal activity for us. I thought perhaps today was your birthday," John explained.

"Maybe it's _your_ birthday."

John scoffed. "Entirely wrong part of the year for that."

"Global warming does wonders, doesn't it? Feels like it's an entirely different part of the year when it is, in fact, not. Happy birthday, Johnny," James jested, grinning widely.

John rolled his eyes. "You're a right git, you know?" he responded. "That was a perfectly fine guess, all things considered."

"I suppose it was, but that doesn't make it any more correct," James informed him, tugging him over. He just barely dodged a businessman in a hurry, and he heard James huff in irritation. "If it was your birthday, though, what do you want to do, Johnny-boy? Go to a café? Nice restaurant? Stay in and get takeaway?"

John shrugged. Well, this was hardly difficult to answer. After all, he had already told James about his sexual desires. This was nothing compared to that. Besides, this was more hypothetical than the sex acts were. "A birthday with you, I am assuming," he murmured before thinking about it. "I'm not entirely sure. I think we would have to go out to a nice restaurant – one only you could afford – on your behest. And I would probably object, saying it's too expensive or I'm not properly dressed or something. And you would, of course, convince me otherwise as you always do. I would try to buy the least expensive meal, but you would know what I really wanted and insist on me eating that instead. Then there would be dessert, which we really wouldn't be hungry for, so we'd have to split it. After that, we would head back to the flat. I expect you would have a plan that would start at that point."

"You're wrong with a couple of points," James informed him.

Cocking his head to the side, John inquired, "How so?"

"The meals we would have eaten at that restaurant would have been small. They always are at restaurants like that. So we would be hungry for the dessert, but I would still insist on sharing it with you anyway, because those sorts of desserts are always too rich in taste to eat all by oneself," he explained matter-of-factly. "But you are right on my plan. I would have fucked you into the mattress so hard that night, Johnny, that you wouldn't have been able to walk the next day."

"And what would we have done if it was _your_ birthday?" he asked curiously, enjoying this conversation. It was innocent enough and so improbable that it made things easy to talk about. After all, it wasn't as if John was ever going to get to be there for James's birthday, so what was the harm talking about it? What was the harm pretending a bit longer? An ache suddenly stung John's heart, and he shoved those thoughts aside.

Humming, James tugged his hand again and turned them down a different street. "We would have gotten takeaway delivered, although I doubt that we would have ever been able to eat it. We would be going at each other like tomorrow wouldn't come. Do everything that you've ever wanted – that I've ever wanted. It'd be like the last week or so only on steroids. Literally. I'm pretty sure we would have to take something to do everything we wanted to do."

With that, John burst out laughing. James joined in soon after. "Oh, God," he finally managed to say. "You're a riot."

James settled down as well, tugging John's hand again and making them cross the street. "You're just getting that now? I knew you were a bit slow, Johnny-boy, but that is taking it to a whole new level."

"… And now you're a git."

Grinning at him, James turned left and kept walking. Suddenly, he changed the subject. "I was right about you, you know."

"Now you're seriously an arsehole," John snapped, glaring at him.

"No, no, no. Not about the slow part. However, you do need to try to keep up, Johnny, or else you'll prove me right," James responded. "You're interesting like I knew you would be."

John stumbled, having missed the uneven crack in the sidewalk. Once he regained his balance, he looked at James and responded, "Well, of course I'm interesting. I'm living with Sherlock Holmes. Did you honestly believe that he would just let anyone be his flatmate?"

"I suppose not. Although it is a shame."

Confused, John pressed, "What's a shame?"

"That he found you first. Think about it, Johnny-boy. Just how different would our lives be if I had been the one to find you?" James pointed out.

John laughed. "You wouldn't have given me the time of day. Had a limp at the time. I wouldn't have been very useful to you, and I doubt that I would have been able to hide my moral compass enough to work for you. You found a good man in Moran, you know. You probably shouldn't let him go so easily."

Humming in response, James tugged John yet again and pulled him into an alleyway. And now that John was starting to look around, he realised that he recognised everything around here. But what were they doing…? Suddenly, James stopped in his tracks. John halted as well, looking over at James in confusion before looking at the spot where James was. His heart dropped. There it stood in front of them, just down the alleyway and across the main road. 221B Baker Street. Instantly, John began to put the pieces together.

"You knew," John accused, turning on his heels to face James. "Today was the last day. You knew the whole time, and you never told me."

"Why should I? We were having a perfectly fine time without you knowing. And it hardly would have changed anything anyway," James responded coolly. "But you're home now, so you should probably get on inside. Mycroft's probably in a tizzy right now, trying to figure out when I'm going to call him to tell him where to pick you up."

Balking at him, John pressed, "That's it?"

Confused, James responded, "That was our deal."

"But-"

"You knew this would happen," James cut in.

John replied, "Yeah, I know, but…"

After a moment's pause, James prompted, "But what?"

"Without a fight? Without talking about it? Just… just _this_?" John inquired, jabbing at 221B.

"This isn't a romance novel or Hollywood film, John," James informed him. "What more were you expecting? A sudden love declaration? That we would run away together? Drive off into the sunset, so madly in love, and live happily-ever-after? That's childish at best."

Scowling, John snapped, "But we haven't talked about this at all."

"What would we have even said?"

John shrugged and frantically looked about. "No clue. Perhaps what will happen now? Or should I just pretend that nothing happened between us?"

James stared at John for a long moment, and John immediately began to see Moriarty emerge. "Pretend nothing happened. That would be best, all things considered."

John felt like he had just been slapped in the face. Of course, there was no way for them to continue this relationship… if that's even what it was. More like a one-sided romance. An unrequited love. Besides, James was right. This had been a long time coming, and John knew the day would arrive when he would have to return to 221B. Hell, part of him had actually been looking forward to it. But at this very moment, John only felt a bit sick. He didn't want this to end – to be severed so definitely from James Moriarty. But what alternative did he have? It's not as if they could sneak in visits, especially with Sherlock being who he was. He would have worked everything out in the matter of minutes. No. This was for the best.

Turning to face James, John pressed, "At least one last kiss."

"Not worried about Sherlock seeing you?" James pressed.

"Not in the least," John responded, knowing that this alleyway was cast in shadows. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to see anything even if he had binoculars.

Humming, James stepped forward and lifted a hand to cup John's cheek. John's heart began to race, electricity shooting through him, as he leaned forward. Their lips met, tentative and slow at first. Eventually, John's arms wrapped around James's neck and drew him in closer. James moaned and wrapped his arms around John's waist, locking their bodies together. They kissed for a long moment, their tongues sliding smoothly past one another, each dancing to his own tempo and yet in perfect rhythm with the other. Slowly, however, their kiss broke. Once it did, they untangled themselves. John took a step back, his heart aching already. Putting on his stoic front, he gave a nod to James. "It's been something else."

"That's an understatement," James responded with a chuckle, offering a smile. "Goodbye, Johnny-boy."

"Goodbye, James."

With that, John turned around. His heart was shredding, being ripped in two with every step. God, whatever pain he had imaged before was nothing like the pain he was actually experiencing. He slowly headed towards 221B, checking both sides of the street before crossing. Once at the door, he put his hand on the doorknob and froze. This was it. Once the door closed, the month he spent getting to know James would be over. It would eventually fade in his memory until it felt more like a dream than reality. Part of him wanted to turn around and give one last wave. Another part of him was scared that James had already left. That he wasn't there anymore, and John would turn to see _no one_. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned the doorknob and entered 221B.

When he heard the door shut behind him, he leaned against it and let out a soft whimper, smothering it with his fist. He headed up the stairs, not wanting Mrs Hudson to come across him to just yet. He reached the flat to find the door open and the place empty. Sherlock must have gotten called away for an urgent case, because he had left most of the lights on. Much to his surprise, John was relieved. He honestly didn't know how he would be able to handle Sherlock right now. Turning to leave, he caught a glimpse of something. He looked over to see his army rucksack sitting there. Of course. James would have thought to ensure that it was brought over. Smiling softly, he reached down and picked it up, slinging it onto his shoulder and heading upstairs.

Nothing had changed about his bedroom. Hell, Mrs Hudson had even made sure that it didn't get dusty, which he was grateful for. Dropping his rucksack on the ground, John flopped down on his bed and felt how empty it was. No one next to him. He tossed an arm over his eyes, blocking out what light came in through the window, as he tried to get to sleep.


	21. White King's Gambit

John woke up in his bed the next day, and he couldn't stop the sense of loneliness that washed over him as he saw the empty bed beside him. Immediately, he became determined to not spend his whole day inside and pining over James. After all, he _had_been looking forward to being free again, and he should be living it up as much as possible now that he could go wherever whenever. He headed downstairs to find that there was no food in the fridge. Instead of investigating the rest of the house, he decided to pop in and see Mrs Hudson before heading over to Tesco.

Naturally, Mrs Hudson was simply ecstatic to see him back – as she had known about the deal and worried about him every single day, a fact she made sure to repeat at least ten times. She forced him to sit down and have a cuppa while she fixed him up something to eat for breakfast. In the process, he found out that Sherlock had been called away for a case in Dublin and that she didn't know when he would be getting back. John almost asked how the last month had been without him there, but he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know. Besides, it wasn't as if he wouldn't find out soon enough. Sherlock would return, and then John would know exactly how much had changed during his absence. The thought alone gave him butterflies in his stomach. What if his best friend wasn't who he used to be? What if he didn't need John? Or, even worse, what if he didn't want John around anymore? What if he got reacquainted with his old lifestyle and decided he preferred it more? What would John do then? Quickly, John forced those thoughts to the back of his mind as Mrs Hudson talked to him all about Mrs Turner's residents.

After catching up, he headed outside, walked to Tesco, bought some groceries, and returned to 221B. Once he was inside, he opened up all the windows to let in the fresh air before setting about cleaning up the flat. He had forgotten what it was like to live with Sherlock – what with experiments all over the place. It had gotten worse in John's absence: the fridge was filled with body parts, the oven contained toes, and eyeballs were back in the microwave. There was no food to be found, of course, as it would have gotten in the way of the experiments. After shifting some things around, John managed to put his food away properly. He then cleaned up the living room before heading up to his bedroom to unpack his rucksack. Whoever had packed his bag had been a neat person, as everything was folded perfectly. All John had to do was reach in and pull out a chunk of clothes before shoving them in the appropriate drawer.

In one of the smaller pockets, John found his mobile phone. He quickly found Sherlock's number and checked for any messages. There were a couple of missed calls from earlier in the month, probably before the news got around. But nothing was recent. Part of him wanted to text Sherlock, as he had been looking forward to seeing his best friend once more. But he recalled that Sherlock was working on a case. Assuming he even saw John's text, Sherlock probably wouldn't answer him and just throw himself back into his work. Besides, Sherlock knew that John would have returned yesterday. If he had wanted to, he would have texted. John sighed and pocketed his phone. Maybe he would text tomorrow.

Once done unpacking, he headed outside and spent the rest of his time wandering about London, popping into different stores and stopping by Angelo's for a bite. Apparently, someone had taken the time to tell Angelo himself, as he didn't charge John for his meal and merely muttered something about it being nice to see John back all in one piece. John honestly didn't care enough to press for more information. Besides, he doubted he should look a gift horse in the mouth. It was wonderful to have that freedom back in his life, even if he missed James.

On the second day of his freedom, he woke up to an empty bed yet again. His heart gave a soft ache of pain before he heard someone moving downstairs. _Sherlock must be home_, he thought to himself. Heading downstairs, he walked into the flat to find Mycroft Holmes sitting on the sofa with two mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of him. Surprised, John stared at him for a long moment.

"Good morning," Mycroft greeted, giving John a warm smile. "Sherlock should be coming back tomorrow at the latest. This last case turned out to be a bit more difficult than what he was expecting."

John picked up a mug and stood in front of Mycroft, looming over him, as he took a sip. "I know that's not what you came here for. Why don't we just cut to the chase? After all, I don't have all day."

"Plans already?" Mycroft inquired, interested.

Chuckling, John responded, "No, but I've spent the last month inside a flat. I'll be damned if I'm going to spend my day in here… talking to you. No offense."

"Your wish to be able to do what you want on your second day of freedom causes me no offense. I apologise for taking up your time, but I'm afraid that this cannot wait," Mycroft informed him.

John sighed and sat down on his chair. He needed to have control of this conversation. If there was anyone other than Sherlock who could read him – could realise what happened between him and James – it would be Mycroft Holmes. One time – and he would deny it if John ever brought it up again – even Sherlock admitted that his brother was a bit sharper than him. So revealing such a personal thing was something that John could not allow to happen. Best case scenario would be a thorough rebuking, and he didn't even want to think about the worst case scenario. "Very well. Shall we start with the basics then?"

"The basics?" Mycroft repeated.

"I don't know anything about Moriarty's network. I know you sent me in hopes that I could uncover something previously unknown, but he's no fool. He kept everything from me. Hell, he never even left his mobile unattended in front of me. So whatever I know about his web is what he wanted me to know and tell you," John explained.

Feigning disinterest, Mycroft took another sip of tea before inquiring, "For example?"

"For example," John repeated, pausing a moment as he thought back, "he keeps a close eye on his network, and he wants you to know this in case you got any ideas about infiltrating. Except for one person, no one knows who Moriarty is. They get their orders from him, but they have no idea what he looks like. They have no way to get in contact with him. No email address or mobile phone number. _He_ contacts _them_. So trying to send someone in to get close to him is pointless. He'll see it coming from a mile away."

Mycroft grinned. "That's not necessarily true."

Confused, John pressed, "What do you mean?"

"We came close," Mycroft responded. "We managed to convince a former sniper to infiltrate the web. It was a long-term commitment, and he did what he could to catch Moriarty's attention. Of course, we suspected that perhaps Moriarty knew, as he was not contacting the sniper as often. And then this deal with you happened, and we knew that if there was ever a time to strike, it would be then. I figured that he would have his hands full with you. Sure enough, he slipped up just enough for us to determine his location. As you know, however, we unfortunately missed our chance. Our sniper just missed killing him."

John felt his blood run cold as everything clicked together. Of course. Moriarty had retaliated when Mycroft invaded his primary flat. John had assumed that Mycroft had heeded the warning. That it was still Mycroft's move in their game. Suddenly, John felt another realisation wash over him. Moriarty must have found out that it was Mycroft. After all, there would be no way that Moriarty wouldn't hunt down the person who commissioned the hit on his life. But he didn't tell John for some reason. Maybe it was because he knew he would have to retaliate? Or maybe he was going to until John kissed him. But that's why James started taking him out and mentioning Mycroft in the process. That's why James didn't call Mycroft and tell him where to pick John up like they had agreed on the first day. It was Moriarty making his move – showing Mycroft just how powerless he really was. That Moriarty could do whatever he wanted with John, and there was nothing Mycroft could do in retaliation.

"But you mentioned that there is one person who has personal contact with Moriarty," Mycroft pressed, cutting into John's thoughts.

Pausing, John felt himself slightly losing control of the conversation. This wasn't a matter of what he could talk about, as Moriarty would have never revealed something that he was worried Mycroft would discover. This was a matter of what exactly he wanted Mycroft to know. There were certain things that were obvious – what exactly they did together in their free time, the topics during their outings, and the personal stories exchanged towards the end. Other things were a bit more obscure, such as how he and Moran wound up becoming reacquainted and that Moriarty still had living relatives. Ironically enough, it felt like John was being tested in a way. James had told him things that Mycroft could easily use against him and trusted John enough to keep them private. But Sherlock would be depending on his information as well. So now John was teetering between what would betray James and what might betray Sherlock.

"Yes. There's one employee who has direct contact with James Moriarty, and it seems that he prefers to keep it that way. Doesn't put much faith in his other employees," John answered vaguely before taking another drink.

"Rightfully so," Mycroft noted, leaning back and observing John. Immediately, John felt his blood race. "Who was he?"

"Who?"

"The employee," Mycroft responded.

Scoffing, John took another drink of tea before answering, "What? You think James Moriarty just informed me who this all-important employee is?"

Mycroft frowned, squinting his eyes a moment, and John held his gaze defiantly. Finally, he broke the eye contact and looked down at his tea. "I suppose not. One could only hope, though." He took a drink as well. "What else can you tell me?"

"I'm not sure what specifically you're looking for. I mean, I was away for a month. Do you want a day-by-day playback or something? Or do you want something specific?" John retorted.

"A play-by-play of your life the last month would be the most beneficial, but I cannot help but think that you would object to that. It would take much longer than one day to get through, I'm sure. So how about we start with where you resided?" Mycroft inquired.

Swallowing, John shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not entirely sure where, to be honest. But I'm sure that you can, at the very least, locate the first of two buildings."

"I'm assuming you remembered enough about the place or there was a telling marker that I could use to locate it," Mycroft pressed, leaning forward in interest.

John laughed at that, finding it more humorous than he really should. After all, he had almost died in that building. "Yeah, I think a hole blown in the side is a pretty good marker," he commented.

Mycroft's eyes widened enough to convey his surprise. "You made it out in one piece, I see."

"Barely," John responded before taking another sip. "Someone attacked the building thinking that Moriarty was residing there. Luckily for me, he found out about it and got me out before they blew a chunk out of it."

Mycroft nodded and watched John carefully for a long moment. John took a slow drink, trying to keep his rapidly beating heart in his chest. God, he was so nervous that Mycroft would just outright ask him about his relationship with Moriarty. After a long moment, he asked, "And where did you move after that?"

"Not sure. There was a café and a diner on the same street, though," John offered.

Cocking his head to the side, Mycroft pressed, "You noticed a café and a diner but failed to notice the name of the street?"

"I had just survived an explosion! My last concern was finding out the street name."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. "How close were you to Moriarty by the end of the month?"

John felt his heart drop. "I beg your pardon?"

Leaning down, Mycroft picked up a briefcase from the floor. He opened it and pulled out several photos, all of them clearly taken from the CCTV. "We noticed that you went out a few times with Moriarty. You didn't seemed distress during these outings."

"Well, of course not. He would hardly have let me out a second time if I had been clearly distressed. It's a matter of adapting, Mycroft. In order to taste more freedom, I had to pretend everything was okay," he lied smoothly before taking a drink of tea. He didn't like lying to people, but he wasn't above it, especially when it came to such sensitive topics. "Besides, he mentioned that he wanted to be able to shove it in your face that he could take me wherever he wanted, and there was nothing you could do about it."

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully as he took this in. "What about living arrangements?"

"We already talked about living arrangements."

"I meant with Mr Moriarty. How often did you see him?" Mycroft pressed.

John pressed his lips together for a moment. "Not very often at the beginning. I mean, he didn't see me for three days after the trade."

Mycroft caught his implication. "And towards the end?"

Shifting slightly, John muttered, "Nearly every day."

"And the nature of your relationship was…?" Mycroft pressed.

Immediately, John realised he had lost control of the conversation. "Mycroft," he called out firmly, "I am here to talk about James Moriarty. Any knowledge that I have that could help you with Moriarty is yours to have. You want to know about his living situation? He has a primary flat and secondary flats. I don't know how many, but he keeps several flats in his cards in case someone finds his primary one. Like you did. He moved into a secondary flat until he got a new primary flat lined up."

Mycroft nodded and looked thoughtful for a minute. "Of course. Several fronts. He's trying to make it hard for us to locate him," he noted, letting out a soft sigh. "This hasn't been as insightful as I was hoping it would be."

"Well, I apologise that _my_ sacrifice of freedom wasn't fruitful enough for you and the government," John snapped, rising to his feet. "I don't know what else to tell you, Mycroft. He kept me at arm's distance. He knew what you were looking for and what you wanted, and he made damn sure that I couldn't give it to you. Does that really surprise you, though? Honestly, can you say that it shocks you that Moriarty was yet again a step ahead?"

Slowly, Mycroft rose to his feet. "John," he called out softly, and his voice took John completely off guard. Blinking, John relaxed a touch and waited. "Were you…" Mycroft began before hesitating and shaking his head. "Did he torture you, John?"

John was dumbfounded by the inquiry. Of course to anyone else it would be much more likely that Moriarty tortured John than had sex with him, but it still threw him for a loop. "Why would you ask that?" he pressed.

"You get overly defensive whenever I press for information about your personal time with Moriarty. That, and the fact that I can see a bit of a bruise right above your jumper collar, all led me to believe that he possibly tortured you for information," Mycroft responded, motioning towards John's collar.

Flushing slightly, John responded, "I'm going to be perfectly honest with you here. What happened between James Moriarty and myself will not help you in your quest to capture him. There's no reason for you to brood over it." With that, he drained the rest of his mug. Mycroft could assume what he wanted from John's little speech. It was hardly his fault if Mycroft wound up getting something wrong. "Is there anything else I could help you with?"

"There is plenty more to still talk about. I'm afraid that you haven't given me enough. You see, we were hoping-"

"What? For Ja- Moriarty's head on a silver platter?" John snapped back, barely catching himself before he called James by his proper first name. "I already told you that he was ready for this."

"Yes, but a _month_, John. You had a month in which you saw him nearly every single day, and you're telling me that you don't know anything about him. Do you honestly think I will believe that?" Mycroft pressed.

John scoffed. "It hardly matters what you do and don't believe. What matters are the facts of the situation. Yes, I was with Moriarty nearly every single day. He came to provide company, if you will, as I was _locked in a bloody flat for a month_! Of course, we avoided the obvious taboo subjects, such as his work or my cases with Sherlock. I made sure to give away nothing that could be detrimental to you or your younger brother. But recall what type of situation I was in. If I gained too little information, the British government would be riding my arse. But if I learned too much, there would be a chance that I wouldn't make it out of that flat alive. I was placed in a precarious spot, Mycroft, and I think I handled it pretty well," he snapped back. Part of him marvelled at how easily he reasoned everything out while skirting around the whole truth. It felt like a natural thing to do, as he was trying to keep his own secrets private, and he could only imagine the repercussions of telling Mycroft that he was in a sexual relationship with James Moriarty. Even so, he had to wonder if Moriarty had rubbed off on him more than he realised.

Nodding, Mycroft paused for a moment before setting his mug back down on the coffee table. "I will convey this all to my superiors. However, I feel the need to warn you that they will probably not be too pleased about the lack of information. Please understand that I – _we_– had a lot riding on this little venture, as it was an extraordinary chance to get a glimpse of Moriarty's network. So do not be surprised if I return with more questions. I will try my best to convince them of your valour and sincerity." He set the photos back into his briefcase and grabbed his umbrella. "I'm glad to see you are back safe and sound, John. I will be in contact. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mycroft," John responded, wondering all the while what he had managed to get himself into.


	22. En Passant

Two weeks had passed since John returned to 221B. Sherlock came back after three days, just as Mycroft said he would, and he and John had been reacquainting themselves. Much to his surprise, John found that it was harder than he expected. Although he was glad to see John back, Sherlock had gotten used to doing whatever he wanted whenever he wanted again. Their first crime scene together was incredibly awkward as they tried to find their natural rhythm once more. Apparently, Molly had been a proper substitute during John's absence, and she had appeared unannounced at the scene only to find John already there. After a few awkward words, they tried to work together, but John kept accidentally cutting in front of Molly, and Molly consistently answered Sherlock's questions before John.

Before they left the crime scene, Molly bashfully muttered that she was glad John was back and that now that she knew, she would only come when asked. John thanked her for understanding and explained that Sherlock would text her if he was working at the clinic when something happened. Although he supposed it would be nice to have a reprieve while at work, it felt strange to share Sherlock with someone else, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. He had secretly hoped that everything would just go back to the way it was before, no matter how illogical that was. Perhaps it would over time, but right now he had to adapt to the changes that were bound to occur after a month of absence. Sherlock was slowly reducing the amount of experiments in the flat, making sure there was a clear spot for John to eat breakfast and enough room in the fridge for food. And John appreciated it since it was Sherlock's way of trying to make him feel at home again.

Trekking down the stairs, John rubbed his eyes and yawned. It was one of his first days off from the clinic – John had thrown himself back in it as soon as possible in hopes that it would distract him – and Sherlock was sitting in front of his microscope, examining something closely. Honestly, John was just grateful that he hadn't played his violin the whole night like he had done two days ago.

"Would you like an omelette for breakfast?" John offered as he opened the refrigerator. Sherlock didn't respond, so John repeated, "Sherlock, do you want an omelette or not?"

Blinking, Sherlock looked up for a second. "Hm? What? Oh, no." He looked back down at his microscope, and John said nothing as he grabbed the egg carton out of the fridge. Suddenly, he heard a somewhat forced, "Thank you, though, for the offer."

John smiled at the attempt. Sherlock still wasn't used to thanking him, but he had been making an effort to do it more often once John returned. "You're welcome." He cracked open a couple of eggs in the skillet and went to fetch the milk.

Quickly, Sherlock shifted some of his experiments over to clear a spot at the table for John. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Fine. Why? Was I screaming last night?" John inquired. Normally, John didn't wake up during one of his nightmares or night terrors, and if Sherlock was staying up all night, he would hear John screaming. The next morning, he always asked how John was feeling.

"No," Sherlock murmured softly. "You haven't in a while."

Shrugging, John responded, "That's good to know." He carefully flipped the omelette before saying, "I missed this, believe it or not. You doing all of your crazy experiments. Taking up the whole house. Although I'm not sure it's necessary to fill the vegetable drawer with fingers and toes."

Sherlock smirked. "Since when did my experiments ever seem necessary to you? I assure you, however, they are of the utmost importance. Far more important, I dare say, than your carrots and celery. Your diet has changed since returning."

"I learned how to cook while I was away." That's always how they referred to it. John had been "away" for a month. Although everyone knew where he had been, no one except Mycroft asked outright how his time with Moriarty was. "I see your appetite hasn't changed."

"Transport," Sherlock responded dismissively. John lowered the heat on the stove as he grinned. Yes, _this_is exactly what he had been missing. As he grabbed the ham out of the fridge, he heard Sherlock softly say, "You didn't do what I told you to."

John was startled and confused by the sudden statement. "What do you mean?"

"You let him get to you," Sherlock responded. Their eyes met, and John could see a certain sadness in Sherlock's gaze.

It took John a moment before he realised just who Sherlock was talking about. Immediately, guilt rushed through his body. Sherlock _knew_. "I-I don't kn-" he started to lie.

"When I first arrived home, you were wearing a jumper despite the warm weather. When you craned your head a bit, I could see bruises on your skin. But they weren't bruises from any torture object. No. They were teeth marks. Judging by the shape and size of what I could see, they were likely Moriarty's. He wasn't trying to hurt you at the time, given away by the fact that he didn't break the skin even though he could have. Also, there were no defensive wounds on you despite the fact that there were marks that showed the use of restraints. Also, there was a lack of restraints around your ankles. So only your hands were tied down, and you didn't fight it at all, which means that you were a willing participant," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. He broke eye contact with John. "I know enough about sex to deduce what happened between you two."

John's heart stopped. "Sherlock," he started to say, feeling awful. He should have known better. Of course this would affect Sherlock. How had he ever let James convince him otherwise? "I'm sorry."

If Sherlock heard his apology, he didn't acknowledge it. It could be because he didn't know how to react to it. After all, John had slept with his archenemy. A simple "sorry" wouldn't be enough for this. "You had sex with James Moriarty. The question is _why_. Especially for a man who declared himself 'not gay' more times than I care to remember."

John turned to the skillet again. The eggs were ruined, and he chucked them into the bin. "It's complicated," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck. By now, he was more than a bit defensive.

"You're distressed," Sherlock stated, examining him closely. John raised an eyebrow. "Rubbing the back of your neck. It's a common movement for when someone is upset. Trying to fix that 'pain in your neck.' Why would you be distressed?" He stared at John for a long moment before his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh, I see. I thought that it was strictly physical. I mean, you're a very sexual man. It's only natural that you would still feel that drive. Moriarty would have been available, and he was clearly more than willing. So you two had sex. It would have been something that you would have been ashamed of, but not defensive about. You would have been able to explain it as the human condition and the natural desire for sex. But when I looked at you for an explanation, you became distressed. That's because it's sentimental."

"Sherlock, stop!" John warned, glaring at him.

"Or what?" Sherlock challenged. John could tell he was troubled despite how much Sherlock tried to hide it. "It's fine that you became sentimental about it. From what I know, it is natural for sexual experiences to bring two people closer." John pressed his lips together in distaste. "But that isn't the case at all. What you're feeling isn't real, John." Rising to his feet, Sherlock hovered over John and murmured, "You're suffering from Stockholm Syndrome."

All the air went out of John's lungs. He felt like he had been punched in this gut. Those two words rang through his mind as he processed them. "No," he objected, shaking his head. "Sher-Sherlock, that's not-"

"He deprived you of human contact and then showed you the affection you, as a normal human being, needed," Sherlock declared.

Shaking his head, John snapped back, "I had contact with Sebastian Moran!"

Surprised, Sherlock took a step back and re-evaluated him. "Who?"

"James Moriarty's right-hand man. The only man who has contact with Moriarty himself. He came over a couple of times and hung out with me," John explained, feeling rather victorious.

"You told Mycroft that you didn't meet that employee."

"No. He inferred that I didn't meet Moran from what I implied," John countered, realising that he had just revealed he hadn't been entirely truthful.

"You _lied_ for that spider?" Sherlock inquired, clearly baffled. "If that isn't a tell for Stockholm Syndrome, John, I don't know what is!"

John hated this already. He hated this conversation – that Sherlock could see right through him. He hated that he had ever gotten involved with James Moriarty. He hated that he _missed_ James. He hated that he had ever accepted Moriarty's deal to begin with. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He was trapped and struggling to find a way out. "I had other contact. I met Moran several times during my stay-"

"Captivity," Sherlock corrected.

"-my _stay_ with James Moriarty," John snapped back.

"And how much time passed before you met Moran?" Sherlock interrogated. John shook his head and looked away. Already, he knew that he didn't want to answer that question. "How long, John?"

"I don't know," John responded haughtily. "A couple weeks, I suppose. I stopped counting after a while."

"And were you attached to Moriarty before you met Moran?" Sherlock pressed.

John supposed he was, but he didn't want to verbally admit it. "Sherlock, I was a soldier. I was trained in counter-torture techniques by being tortured. I also received training in identifying and counteracting Stockholm Syndrome."

"Yes, which is only useful when you are looking out for it," Sherlock replied. "_Were_ you?"

Scowling, John merely set his jaw. He had not been searching for the symptoms within himself. In fact, the thought had never even occurred to him. But he couldn't accept this. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that his feelings for James Moriarty were all fake, not when they felt so real. Not when he felt so alone some mornings when he woke to find no one next to him. "I'm going out to eat," he finally said.

"John," Sherlock responded, cutting him off as he headed towards the door. "There's nothing to be ashamed about. Stockholm Syndrome is a legitimate psychological disease. It doesn't make you weak. He just played you because he knew your basic necessity for human contact. He deprived you of it, and then he suddenly decided to stay with you for long periods of time. Don't you see? He was only pretending to be your gracious saviour." Pausing, Sherlock swooped down to catch John's gaze. Pity. John could see it in his eyes. He was being pitied by Sherlock Holmes, of all people. Immediately, John despised the look. "He's a clever man, John, and he figured out how to get to you. How to make you bend to his will. Honestly, I don't know why I expected for you to be able to outsmart him. You're hardly in his league of intellect, after all."

John felt pained as he heard this. Moriarty was just playing him? He didn't like that thought at all, and he didn't want to believe that it was true. Not after everything they had done together. Roughly, he shoved Sherlock out of the way. "I'm going for a walk," he repeated. "And don't follow me!"

For the last three days, John had been doing nothing but mulling over what Sherlock had said. Stockholm Syndrome. Those words put an icy, sick feeling in his stomach. Swallowing hard, he shook his head again. To say that it bothered him was understatement. His feelings weren't real despite how they felt. John would have sworn he was in love with James Moriarty. To say that it was all due to Stockholm Syndrome just seemed impossible. Not when he had lost sleep over it. Not when he had ridiculed himself again and again about his feelings. Not when he fought so desperately against those very feelings and denounced them himself for so long. It just seemed impossible that they stemmed from Stockholm Syndrome.

Sherlock was thinking about a case, playing the violin to occupy is time, and John found that he was a bit restless. There was nothing he could do to help, and he knew that Sherlock would message him when he finally solved the case. He decided eating out didn't sound so bad. Angelo's sounded even better. "I'm going to Angelo's to get something to eat," John said. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock would hear him. Even so, he had said something, so he didn't feel bad as he headed down the stairs and out onto the street. Flagging down a taxi, he slid in and said, "Angelo's Diner. 1158 High Road."

He cupped his face in his hands and closed his eyes as he felt the cab pull away. Since returning, John had yet to truly settle back into 221B. Everything had just been chaotic, and he felt like he was scrambling to keep up. No matter how much he scrambled, though, he couldn't do it. Mycroft had been calling him repeatedly, asking more clarifying questions about John's stay and what he knew about Moriarty's web. Sherlock and he had been doing a silent dance around one another, trying to find their balance from before. Sometimes, John wondered if things would ever return to the way they were before.

"You alright there, Johnny-boy?" a familiar voice called out.

John's head snapped up as he heard the familiar voice. Eyes narrowed, he shifted over and looked into the rear-view mirror. Although he could only see dark eyes staring back at him, he would know James Moriarty anywhere. "James," he breathed out, his heart ramming in his chest. He rebuked himself for having such a sentimental reaction.

The light turned green, and James's attention turned back to the road. "Surprise! I couldn't very well meet you any other way, not with the Ice Man keeping tabs on you. This was the only solution." There was a moment of silence. "You don't seem very happy to see me, Johnny," he noticed, sounding disappointed.

"I have yet to find out what the occasion is," John responded guardedly as he glanced outside.

James chuckled under his breath. "I'm not here to kidnap you, if that's what you think. I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Yes," James responded as he turned left. "You're in danger."

This piqued John's interest immediately. "What do you mean?" he pressed, leaning forward.

"I've been keeping an eye on the Ice Man and the other clowns who run the British government," James informed him. "He's been keeping his masters at bay, but he can only hold them off for so long. They're getting restless. They think you know something that you're not telling them. That you're protecting me. Right now, Mr Holmes is trying to convince them that there's no need to act since you told him everything you knew. But his masters are meeting behind closed doors. They're talking about taking you in for questioning."

John knew what that meant. Although he knew that he shouldn't be, he was mildly surprised by the drastic measures. He forgot too often that Moriarty was a wanted man. That people would pay millions to have his head on a silver platter. "Consider me warned."

There was a long moment of silence that passed between them before James suddenly inquired, "What's wrong? You have been remarkably indifferent since seeing me. I didn't think our time together was that awful."

"Sherlock thinks I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome," John blurted out. He blinked in surprise when he realised what he had just confessed, and his heart leapt to his throat.

James seemed shocked as well. "Why would he think something as ridiculous as that?"

"Because I basically lied to Mycroft," John confessed. He saw no need to hide such information from James. After all, he would have just worked it out of John sooner or later.

James asked, "Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I like Moran," John snapped back, not wanting to get into the other reasons. "I told Mycroft that you only had one employee who knew who you were and had contact with you. He wanted to know who, and so I implied that I didn't know who it was."

James remained silent for a long moment. "And Sherlock found out," he finally murmured. After turning again, he murmured, "What do you think, John?"

"I don't know what to think. I've been thinking about it for the last three days, and I can't make heads or tails of it. Because if it's true then what we had – whatever that was – well, it's all negated now, isn't it?" John responded, sounding a bit dejected despite himself.

Pausing a moment, James pressed, "I'm assuming that you were a bit stressed at the beginning of your confinement. It would only be natural, after all. But I did my damnedest to keep it from being traumatic. Was it?"

"No," John murmured, thinking back.

"Alright. Did you feel abused in any way, shape, or form while staying with me? Whether it was emotional, physical, or sexual."

John tried to remember any time he felt that way. Shaking his head, he responded, "No. You never once hurt me – and the only time you threatened me was when you and Mycroft were having your spat. And I had control over the sexual situation, because you refused to touch me until I made the first move."

"Did you feel that your only chance for survival was obedience to my every wish," James inquired.

Relaxing a bit more, John answered, "No. Not once. If I hadn't once touched you, you would have let me go unscathed by the end of my stay. I'm sure of it."

"Did you start changing your habits in order in hopes of deterring a violent reaction?"

John felt relief wash over him as James continued arguing his point. It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome. "No. I didn't worry at all about the consequences of my actions. I wasn't scared of you."

"Are you still worried then?" James pressed softly.

Laughing softly, John felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. "No," he answered, grinning widely. "No. But I suppose that anyone experiencing Stockholm Syndrome would deny it, right?"

"But you didn't show any of the traditional symptoms, and you only had one of three traits needed for Stockholm Syndrome to occur," James pointed out before slowly coming to a stop outside Angelo's. "Breathe easy, Johnny, about that. You need to focus on your main problem, which is the Ice Man and his idiotic masters. No more lying. You honestly don't know anything, but if you continue to only give half-truths, they're never going to believe you. I wouldn't have let you know something that I feared Mycroft would find out about."

John leaned forward and murmured, "It was nice to see you again, James."

"I could say the same. Unfortunately, though, this will be the last time that we can meet. It's far too dangerous for us to continue to see each other. It will only confirm what Mr Holmes's masters believe to be the truth," James explained, restarting the meter. "No charge."

John nodded slightly before rubbing his eyes. Part of him wished that he and James had not seen each other this time. It had been hard enough parting the first time. Sucking in a deep breath, John replied, "Thank you for the warning. I will keep an eye out. And I'll try to tell Mycroft the truth before Sherlock talks to him first." He paused for a moment, wanting to ask for one last kiss, before shaking his head. He had gotten a proper goodbye last time. "Goodbye, James. And thanks again."

"No problem, Johnny-boy. It was good to see you again."

With that, John stepped out of the taxi and closed the door behind him. He could hear it drive away as he headed into Angelo's. Although it felt like a wound had just been reopened, he knew that he needed to focus as James had told him. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Mycroft. As soon as he answered, John said, "I have something to tell you. About Moriarty. Meet me at Angelo's as soon as possible. I'll be waiting." He ended the call before Mycroft could say anything and sat down at a table. Holding the mobile, he quietly traced his fingers over the keys, tracing out the number Moran had given him. Maybe he would need it after all.

Mycroft arrived thirty minutes later. Walking over, he sat down across from John. "What information do you have for me?"

"I lied to you earlier. I know Moriarty's right-hand man," John informed him before taking a bite of ravioli.

Mycroft was staring in a very Holmes-like way. His eyes widened only a touch as he leaned forward in interest. Apparently, Sherlock had not told him, and John was grateful for it. At the very least, it made John look better. "Why did you lie? And why are you telling me this now?"

"Sherlock suggested that I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome," John stated. He didn't feel as jittery now talking about it. After all, he knew the truth beyond a reasonable doubt. "But to be perfectly honest, it was because I liked the guy. I knew him a bit from my army days, and I enjoyed spending time with him. And he saved me from the bombing, so I supposed it had been my way of trying to repay him. But that's all beside the point now, isn't it?" John licked his lips as he looked back down at his plate and stabbed a couple more pieces. "His name is Sebastian Moran. From what I could tell, he works directly with Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully as John spoke. "How often did you see him?"

"Only a handful of times. We didn't talk about much, to be honest. Some reminiscing about our time in the army. He introduced me to video games so I would have something to do during my long days alone. Always brought beer, too, but I doubt that will help you with finding him."

For several long minutes, Mycroft remained completely quiet as he processed his information. He asked a few more clarifying questions: "Sebastian Moran was the one who saved you from the bombing?" "What video games did you two play?" "For what game station?" "What can you tell me about that second flat you lived in again?" John answered them all honestly and openly, no longer feeling restricted by unwritten rules about what he could and could not say. Finally, Mycroft nodded and remained quiet for another long moment. Suddenly, he said, "There's been a lot of pressure placed on me, John."

Confused, John responded, "I'm sorry? I should have told you about this sooner, but-"

"Not just about you," Mycroft stated. "Moriarty… He's become erratic and unpredictable. In the last week alone, he's ruined an election and overthrown a government."

John shrugged and shook his head. "What am I supposed to do about it? I have no way to contact him and tell him to stop. And even if I did, I doubt that he would listen to me."

"No, but it makes me wonder what happened between you two," Mycroft stated.

Immediately, John's heart began to race again. Sherlock already knew, yes, but that was different than Mycroft. There was no doubt that the British government would have a field day if they found out how intimate James and John had been. "What do you mean?"

"You were gone for exactly a month. In that time, Moriarty's activities decreased immensely. The only major thing we can link him back to for sure was the destruction of a Russian faction who were causing a bit of a ruckus, although there's only speculation as to why that happened. In these last two weeks, though, he's wreaked more havoc than he has ever before," Mycroft continued.

John pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I served as a distraction, Mycroft. Does that really surprise you? He had Sherlock Holmes's best friend all to himself for a month. Of course he was going to try to take time to pick my brain a bit. He found it amusing. Found me amusing. He liked to mess with my head. Now he doesn't have that. What did you think he would do? Twiddle his thumbs?"

Making a sour face, Mycroft shook his head. "No. I suppose not." With that, he rose to his feet. "Thank you for the information. I'll contact you if need be." John nodded in acknowledgement as he took another bite. "Enjoy your meal, John."

John waved goodbye and turned back to his food. Mycroft gave no indication that he was being pressured to bring John in, but now knowing that Moriarty was raising Hell, it was hardly surprising. But maybe this would get John off the hook. He figured it would be a blessing if he never had to talk about James Moriarty again. Somehow, he had a feeling that that wasn't about to happen any time soon.


	23. Castling

Two months had passed since John's release, and things had gradually changed for the better. John no longer woke up feeling lonely without anyone beside him in the morning. He and Sherlock had found even ground again, and crime scenes were no longer awkward to work. John started working part-time at the clinic once more, able to fill in whenever needed. After about a month, Molly stopped substituting John at certain cases, and John resumed taking time from work in order to work with Sherlock. Mycroft stopped asking questions. However, there remained an underlying tension between the two whenever he came over to visit. But all in all, John's life was slowly becoming normal again.

Well, as normal as it could possibly be, all things considered. Yet there was still something off. For the last week or so, John felt like he was being followed. It didn't feel like when Mycroft would be watching over him or Sherlock would be tailing him. No – it was different. It made John's hair stand on end and look around attentively. But there was nothing that stood out to him. At first, he just dispelled it as paranoia. When it continued to persist, he started listening to his instincts. After all, they had never led him astray before. So when he noticed a black van with tinted windows, he couldn't help himself. He reached into his pocket and dialled that number he had learned by heart.

"Moran," came a gruff voice on the other side.

John recognised it immediately, and he couldn't help but smile in relief. If there was anyone who would be able to help him work out what was going on, it would be Moran. Mycroft would be sworn to secrecy if it was the government, which was emphasized by the fact that he had yet to call John and speak to him about a tail. And if it was someone other than the government, no matter how improbable that was, Moran would have the best connections to figuring out who was behind it. Besides, having a bloke who's built like a brick shithouse standing next to John would always be a good deterrent for anyone following him. "John Watson here."

"What's wrong?" Moran sounded a bit on edge, which made John even more wary than before. It was as if Moran knew without John having to say a word.

"I know this sounds a bit strange, but I think I'm being followed," John informed him quietly as he continued to walk normally down the street.

After a moment's pause, Moran asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm heading back to 221B. Why?"

Moran pressed, "There's a deli right next to your flat, isn't there? I'll meet you there in twenty."

Before John could object, the call ended. He tried to call back only to receive a busy tone. This wasn't a good idea. The government had to know what Moran looked like – there was an army record for the man somewhere – and coming right next to 221B and meeting John was more than just a brazen move on Moran's part. Even so, John couldn't just outright stand him up. Moran was coming all this way because he called. With a sigh, John pocketed his phone. He headed into Speedy's once he got there, greeted Mrs Hudson with a nod, and sat down at a table towards the back. About ten minutes later, Moran came walking in. He spotted John almost immediately and sat down across from him.

"This is stupid and dangerous," John pointed out as soon as Moran was comfortable. "The government is bound to be looking for you, and we're right next to where I live."

Moran grinned. "I think you forget who my employer is. I can guarantee you that the government is currently unaware of our meeting." Blinking in surprise, John relaxed a bit as he heard this. Moriarty, of course, would make sure that Moran was safe. "Now, talk to me. You said you felt like you were being followed. By whom?"

"I don't know, to be honest. I just had a feeling, and then I saw a black vehicle with dark, tinted windows. I mean, the only people who have used that kind of car were Mycroft and Irene Adler. But Irene – well, she's dead – and Mycroft would have just flat out picked me up. He wouldn't have sent a car to follow me around London. So it can't be either of them." Moran made a strange face when John brought up Irene's death, and John realised that Moran probably didn't know Irene. "And I'm assuming that it's not Ja- Moriarty."

"No. It's most definitely not," Moran concurred. Both of them remained silent for a long moment. "You know who it has to be, don't you?"

Frowning, John glanced away. "Mycroft hasn't asked any questions in weeks. I thought all of that was dying down."

"Yes, but this is the British government we're talking about. I'm sure you've met some of the idiots they've hired. Had to have in the army at the very least," Moran pointed out, only half-joking. "There's no other logical explanation unless you have been offending cults with your blog or something."

John smiled as he heard this. "You can never tell with people nowadays. They get so upset over the most ridiculous things, you know?" Moran grinned in response for a moment. "But no, I highly doubt that I have offended anyone with my blog."

"Government it is then."

John shifted, unsettled by the confirmation of his fears. "But I don't know anything."

"Yes, _we_ know that. But either they don't or it doesn't matter to them," Moran stated, leaning back in his seat.

"So what do we do then?"

Moran remained quiet for a long moment. "There's nothing that _you_ can do about it, unfortunately. I'm assuming that you have been completely honest with Mycroft."

"In every regard. I apologise if it's caused you any issues," John murmured sincerely.

Moran shrugged. "I'm used to being on the run. It has yet to affect my work, as I have been getting shipped to other countries recently. It'll be like that until everything calms down a bit."

Nodding, John asked, "So what are you going to do about it? Or is there nothing anyone can do about it?" That terrified him most of all. After all, he was just getting his life back in order. The last thing he needed was the government coming in and flipping everything upside-down.

"We'll keep a closer eye on them. Try to distract them by getting them to look away from you. But if push comes to shove…" His voice trailed as he captured John's gaze. The serious atmosphere was almost stifling.

John nodded, understanding the implication. "I'll be fine. I was also trained in counter torture techniques. I know what I'll be facing, and I know that I'll be able to take it. Eventually, they'll realise that I don't know anything."

"I'll try to make sure it doesn't get that far," Moran responded, determination evident in his tone. John was grateful to hear it. "Just stay on your toes, John. And if you think they're going to make a move on you, call me. Do you understand?"

Nodding, John muttered, "Yeah."

He honestly hoped that it would never come to that. After all, what would Moran be able to do then? John would be at the mercy of the government and subjected to whatever they decided to put him through. He would be utterly helpless in their clutches, and that made him feel sick to his stomach. Standing up, Moran bade him farewell before leaving. A few minutes later, John rose to his feet and headed up to 221B. He wasn't sure how on Earth he was going to make it through something like that, especially if they just thought he wasn't breaking as opposed to the truth, which was he didn't know anything more than what he told them. He would just have to hope that Mycroft would keep them at bay until their attention was finally diverted. Taking in a deep breath, he greeted Sherlock before sitting down on the sofa and opening the paper. Sherlock muttered a half-hearted greeting as he read the victim's diary. Everything would be alright, or, at least, that's what John would try to convince himself. It would do him no good worrying over what might be.

Suddenly, he heard the clink of glass, and he looked up to find a mug of tea in front of him. Sherlock's eyes never strayed from the lines as he went back to sit down. Smiling softly, John picked up the tea and took a sip before repressing a grimace. It was too strong, and he quickly removed the bag. He would have to dilute it in order to drink it, but as he soon as he rose, Sherlock's eyes fastened on him. Picking up the tea, he made a point to drink some of it again as he headed into the kitchen. Sherlock was appeased enough to go back to his reading, and John couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. At least Sherlock had tried.

"Client. Let's go," Sherlock said eagerly as he grabbed his coat. The excitement was almost tangible. When John didn't automatically rise to his feet, Sherlock pressed, "Come on. Get a move on. We don't have all day, you know. They want to meet us as soon as possible."

Leaping to his feet, John snapped his laptop shut before grabbing his coat as well. "Where are we going?"

"They demanded to meet at Leicester Square. Just outside Hippodrome Casino," Sherlock responded as he put on his scarf.

So it was at least a seven on the interesting scale, and Leicester Square was only fifteen minutes away. Both of them headed down the stairs, John following close behind Sherlock. "So what do we know so far?"

"Our clients didn't want to reveal exactly who they were, but going off the secrecy of our meeting, I can say that they are the owners of the casino. Probably someone has swindled them out of millions of dollars, and they want to know how that person did it so they can prosecute them. Oh, I love these sorts of cases. The culprits are always so clever," Sherlock raved happily as he flagged down a cab. He slid in first, as always, and John couldn't help but admire how some things never changed. It gave him a sense of normality – as if he had never been away. "I wonder what it is this time. An individual or a team. Oh, I hope it's a team. Those are the best. They work together so perfectly in order to avoid being caught. Always in sync. Always on the move. Always aware of everything. It's like art, only much more interesting."

John smiled as he heard Sherlock rant. When Sherlock got so enthusiastic about something, he couldn't help but be enthusiastic as well. "Who knows? Maybe they killed someone in the process," he teased.

"Highly unlikely. Lestrade would have messaged me if that had been the case," Sherlock answered. After a moment's pause, he said, "Oh. You were joking, weren't you?"

"Very good. I was."

Nodding, Sherlock paused for a moment, marking when he was taking note of something. John waited only for nothing to be said. Their taxi stopped, and they emerged after Sherlock paid. Once they were both on the sidewalk, Sherlock glanced around and frowned slightly. "I was assuming that they would greet us outside the casino."

"Not every client rolls out the welcome mat for us, you know," John answered lightly. Even so, Sherlock's reaction to not being greeted made him a bit wary. Normally, Sherlock couldn't care less if someone was at the front door for them. In fact, he would just barge in half the time. So this reaction was more than strange. It was almost eerie.

Sherlock continued to look around, and John followed his gaze, trying to figure out what the Hell Sherlock was looking for. "John," he suddenly hissed. John turned at the sound of his name. Sherlock was rigid, his eyes wide and his face pale. "Run!" he shouted, grabbing John by the arm and dragging him with him. John staggered before immediately following. No questions – no explanations – just blind faith. Whatever Sherlock knew could be told to him later, but right now – for whatever reason – they needed to get out of there.

Turning sharply, Sherlock led them down an alleyway before bursting inside a building. They emerged on the other side before dashing into another one. John's adrenaline was pumping as he continued to follow Sherlock step-by-step. Reaching back, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and yanked him forward, forcing John to kick up his speed a notch. Stumbling, John nearly crashed into someone as they abruptly burst onto the street and made a sharp right. He staggered and stumbled as he tried to get his feet back underneath him. Sherlock continued to pull him along, not allowing John to fall behind for even a second. Three buildings later, they emerged and snagged a taxi from another person after Sherlock flashed Lestrade's badge.

Once they were inside, John gasped, "What was that all about?"

"I never thought – they would be such – idiots," Sherlock panted out. "Mycroft warned me – that they were talking about – taking you in. But he said – he _told_ me that he would – keep you safe. I should have known better than to trust him. He can't even keep true to his diet, why would I expect him to keep true to his promises?"

"I'm not following," John confessed breathlessly.

"There was no client," Sherlock stated, pulling out his mobile. "It was them. The government. Trying to get you in a vulnerable position. They want to take you in, John."

Trying desperately to catch his breath, John inquired, "Now what? We run from them? For how long?"

Sherlock's fingers were flying across the keyboard of his phone. "We're going back to 221B. There was a reason why they drew us out and onto the street, so we'll be safe there. I'm texting Mycroft right now. He'll get them to back off."

"How? He couldn't get them to leave me alone in the first place," John pressed.

"He'll figure something out," Sherlock answered. He sounded so sure of himself that John just wanted to blindly believe him. Even so, he knew better. There was a chance that Mycroft couldn't work it out. Or that his solution would be only temporary. Obviously, they needed a plan B, but just short of becoming a fugitive, John couldn't think of anything that would work out.

Softly, John inquired, "And if he doesn't? What then?"

Sherlock remained silent as he ticked away on his phone. The only thing that gave him away was the slight hesitation in his fingers. "It'll all be fine. I'll make sure of it," he stated matter-of-factly.

John pulled out his own phone anyway. As much as he wanted to believe Sherlock, he needed to act. His future was on the line, and he couldn't just leave it up to the Holmes brothers to make everything all better. John was a man of action, after all. Typing in Moran's number, he sent out a text. _Government came for me today. Escaped. On the way back to 221B. Safe for now. –JW_ He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to tell Moran, but he felt better once it was sent.

"Sherlock, I think-" John started to say.

Everything that happened afterwards seemed to be a blur. Their cab suddenly jerked to the side, and John felt himself lurch into Sherlock's lap as Sherlock slammed into the door. John barely processed the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass over the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins as his brain activated his survival instincts. As the car came to a stop, John looked up to find Sherlock's arm had broken through the glass. Checking Sherlock's pulse, John called out his name and received a groan in response. It was enough for John to know that he was at least still alive. And John knew just how much he should appreciate that fact alone.

"Sh-Sherlock. Where does it hurt?" Groaning, Sherlock went to move his arm. Quickly, John stopped him. "No, no, no, Sherlock. Don't move. We have to make sure that nothing's broken first." When Sherlock didn't respond, John knew that he needed to get some help. After all, Sherlock might pretend that his body was above an average human being's, but John knew better. He could bleed. He could break. Whipping around, he turned just in time to see the door open. "We need an ambul-" he started to say when he was yanked out of the cab. At first, he thought that maybe something was wrong with the vehicle. Maybe it had caught fire, and they needed to get out. When he looked back, however, he could see nothing obviously wrong. He was about to object – to explain that his friend needed to get to a hospital – when he finally noticed the guns the men were carrying. Heart stopping, John quickly lashed out. He punched one man in the gut before spinning on his heels and striking out at another. Unlike his compatriot, however, he dodged and punched John in the face. Staggering, John fell into someone else and felt a sting in his neck. He slapped a hand against the spot to find nothing there before he was abruptly dragged into a vehicle. Roughly, he was shoved into the car and crammed between two men.

"We have him. Go, go, go, go!"

The car tore away from the street, and all John could think about for a moment was that he had to get back to Sherlock. He had to make sure Sherlock was okay. After all, he had been unable to give him coherent sentences when John last saw him. It was frightening to see his normally articulate friend unable to even say his name. And then John's brain processed who he was with, and his heart began to race. Maybe he could escape. If he got somewhere with enough people, they wouldn't be able to take him away without making a scene. Hell, he could probably get someone to help him back to St Bart's. Slamming his elbow into one of the men's sides, John lunged over him and clawed at the door. All of a sudden, he was yanked back into the seat and pinned there by a person who was much stronger than him.

"Didn't you drug him like I told you to?" the man said as he restrained him.

"Of course I did. This stuff takes time to kick in, though!" the other man snapped back as he clutched his side.

Without warning, John felt a bit woozy. He let out a groan as his body started to become heavy. Blinking several times, he fought the effects of the drug. He needed to stay awake. To remember every detail. Maybe he would be able to escape. He wanted to tell Mycroft when he saw him. _If_ he saw him. John's heart was sinking with every passing metre. What if this was it? What if John never saw Sherlock or Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or Mycroft again? His heart ached. He had survived loss before, yes, but never so much at one time. And what would he have to live for? When he had left his parents, Harry, his friends, he could go off to war and save lives. When he lost James, he could go back to 221B and resume his old life. This had no reward in it, though. Nothing to negate the awful effects, and he cursed the government with every fibre of his being. He cursed them for being stupid enough to let Moriarty steal the plans. He cursed them for not finding a way around the negotiation. He cursed them for not trusting him after he emerged a month later with no information for them. Everything he had done had been for naught, and John wound up with more hurt than he should have after it was all said and done.

"Whoa!" the driver shouted, slamming on the brakes. John would have launched forward in his seat had he not been pinned down by the men next to him. "Did you see that? The bloody light went straight to red!"

"London, mate. As long as it partially works, they're not going to fix it," the man to John's left commented.

"I know, but it just makes no-" the driver started to say. Abruptly, John heard glass breaking and then the horn honking incessantly. He forced his eyes to focus and found the driver slumped onto the steering wheel. After a moment, he realised that the man was dead. His eyes locked onto the windshield, where he saw a bullet hole.

Shot. From a distance. Sniper. Moran.

With that, John started to laugh. Moran must have gotten his text, and he had managed to cut them off. How he knew where to be and when to be there was beyond John, although he suspected that James had something to do with it. But it hardly mattered, because he had come. He had John's back. That fact alone made John's heart swell. "Oh, you all are so fucked."


	24. Promotion

"What did you do?" one of the men demanded. John just laughed in response. Grabbing his gun, he shoved it into John's face. "What the _fuck_ did you do?"

Meanwhile, the other man got out to check on the driver, despite the fact that was obviously dead. He shoved the driver up and off the steering wheel. Picking up his walkie-talkie, he brought it to his lips. Before he could say a word, however, his brains splattered all over the seat and the already dead man. Blinking, John stared for a long moment. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was enough to counteract the drug they had given him.

Getting out of the vehicle, the final man still alive said, "Tell Moriarty that we're even now. And that if he ever contacts me again, I'll make it my personal duty to hunt him down." With that, the car behind them slammed on its horn. John jerked and looked up to find that the light was green. The man rolled his eyes before reaching out and covering his hands in his colleague's blood. "You'll want to leave before this becomes a huge scene. There's an alleyway just to the right of the vehicle. Go down it and then turn left. Walk straight until you either pass out or someone finds you." With that, he staggered away from the vehicle. "Someone call 999! M-my friends have been shot!" he shouted, panicked.

John shook his head and got out of the car. Hopefully, the other guy was causing enough of a distraction so no one would notice John leaving the scene of the crime. He did as ordered, stumbling into the alleyway just to the right of the car. He turned left and started to walk down the street as if nothing had happened. Slowly, though, his adrenaline started to wear off. His steps slowed down, and he had to lean against the side of the buildings in order to keep going. Shuffling his feet across the ground, he was about to collapse forward when he felt as strong arm wrap around his waist and pull him up.

"Not yet, Watson. We're not quite there yet," a familiar voice said softly.

Forcing his eyes to open again, he focused on the person next to him. "Moran," he breathed out, relief evident in his voice. "I don't think I've ever been so happy to see you before in my life."

Moran grinned as he tightened his grip on John a bit more. "I'm glad to see you, too." Quickly, he helped John cross the street. With every step, John leaned into him more. "We're almost there. Just stay with me a bit longer." Moran suddenly grabbed his belt and pulled up.

After a few more steps, they arrived at another black vehicle. "Does no one know that black isn't the only colour for a car?" John complained as Moran opened the door. Just as he went to haul himself into the car, he saw James sitting there. "James," he called out.

"John," James responded warmly, reaching forward and helping John up and in. Unable to move much more, John let them sprawl him across the seats, his head on James's lap. Moran slammed the door behind him and hopped into the driver's seat. "Are you hurt?" James pressed.

"No," John managed to answer. His body was becoming heavier with every passing second, and he felt his mind start to slip. Fighting it, he snapped his eyes open and grasped James's suit. He was scared. The way his mind was being uncontrollably shut down reminded him too much of when he was shot. Panicking, he grasped James's suit. "James. James," he called out desperately as he clung onto consciousness.

James shushed him softly, brushing his hair out of his face. "It's fine, John. You're safe."

"I feel… like I – I'm dying," John slurred out as his eyes threatened to close.

"But you're not," James assured him. "You were given a diluted sedative to put you to sleep. It was the only thing I could do, as they were insistent about tranquilising you. But you're going to be okay, John. You'll just be taking a small nap."

John's heart was racing as he felt his mind being pulled down. James continued to shush him, saying soothing words that didn't process in his mind. Before he knew it, he slipped into a drug-induced sleep.

John stirred as he felt two strong arms wrap around him. He was too tired to open his eyes to see where they were or what was going on. Suddenly, he was hoisted roughly onto a shoulder. Groaning, he let his body drape down limply.

"Be careful with him!" Moriarty snapped.

"He used to be in the army, Boss. He can handle it," Moran answered, and John could hear a car door close.

"I gave you an order, Sebastian," Moriarty stated sharply.

Letting out a sigh, Moran answered, "Yes, sir…"

Before John could hear anything else, he passed out once more.

Shifting, John stretched out a bit and let out a moan as he did so. He was on a sofa, pressed up against the back of it.

"John?" he heard James call out. Shoes clicked across the ground, getting louder with every step.

John wanted to answer. He wanted to let James know that he was okay. He wanted to ask how Sherlock was – if James knew – if not then he wanted to find out somehow. However, his mouth wouldn't function, and he could only mumble in response. He heard James sigh out, and he felt a light touch of fingers through his hair.

"I give it another three hours at least," Moran noted. John heard the _pop_ of a can opening right after. "Sir, don't think I'm trying to overstep my boundaries, but…"

There was a long pause between the two of them before Moriarty inquired, "What?"

"Well, sir, to be perfectly honest, it seems like you're going a long way for just a pawn…"

Suddenly, John felt the touch stop. "Never call him that again," Moriarty ordered, his voice dark and full of power. "John Watson is more than just a pawn."

"Sir?"

"Do you play chess, Sebastian?"

Moran paused a moment. "Sometimes as a hobby."

"Then you know about the promotion of a pawn." There was a long pause between them. "Once a pawn reaches the opposite side of the board, it can be promoted to any piece. With the exception of king, of course," Moriarty explained.

Another moment of silence passed between them. "Wait. You mean that he-?"

James's hand continued to stroke through John's hair. "Yes," he cut in. "At some point, John managed to snake his way across the board and get promoted. He's not a pawn anymore. He's a queen. He has the most power on the board. He could easily bring either side to ruin. But being the good man that he is, he refuses to use this power for his own gain." His hand stopped for a moment, and John shifted slightly. "He holds all the power. If Mycroft and the government had him, they would be in control. But I have him, and the control is in my hands now."

There was a long moment when no one spoke at all, James's hand slowly stroking through John's hair, and John gradually fell asleep once more.

Slowly, John felt the fog of drugs lift from his mind. Groaning, he pressed his face into something soft and warm. Hands fell to his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. "John?" James called out softly. Humming in response, John buried his face deeper into whatever was underneath his head. God, it felt amazing. So soft and comfortable. "He's still out of it," James noted, a slight touch of worry in his voice.

"And what are you going to do when he does wake up?" Moran pressed. Another can was opened, and John managed to wonder how much Moran has had to drink.

"What do you mean?"

Scoffing, Moran responded, "Boss, you're a lot of things. Ignorant is not one of them." A long moment of silence passed between them. "Sir, the government thought that he was hiding something about you. When you swooped in and saved him, it was all but confirming what they feared." When James refused to respond, Moran pressed, "He can never return to his life, Boss."

"I know that," Moriarty snarled. His grasp tightened, his fingers digging painfully into John's scalp. John let out a soft whine in complaint, causing James to relax and remove his hand. "I know that. I know."

"Sir," Moran started.

"Just shut up!" Moriarty growled. "Leave, Sebastian. I'll call you when I need you. Until then, though, your presence is going to do nothing for me. Or John, for that matter."

"Yes, sir."

The sound of footsteps rang out in the room, and John heard a door shut. He felt his pillow shift underneath him, and a hand returned to his hair, running through it gently. Unable to stay awake any longer, John felt that fog cross his mind once more and take over.

Waking up, John yawned and stretched. He arose to find he was in a bed. An unfamiliar bed at that. Groaning, he sat up and felt lightheaded for a moment. He tried to think back to what happened, and then everything came rushing in at once. The case - the trap – the crash – the sniping – the rescue. There were some fuzzy bits after he got into the car with James and Moran, but he honestly couldn't remember much. John jumped to his feet, swaying a touch as the blood rushed to his head. "James," he called out.

"John?" James responded before entering the bedroom. "Don't move too fast. You've just woken up from being sedated. The last thing I need is for you to pass out again.

"Sherlock," John said frantically as James pushed him back down onto the bed. "What's happened to Sherlock?"

Sighing, James answered, "He's fine, John. He's perfectly fine. Mycroft Holmes ensured as much. His arm got sliced by the window, but his trench coat kept it from being too serious. In fact, the most he will have is a scar from it. His head had a cut on it as well, but they bandaged that up. And the Ice Man is watching over him, so he's perfectly safe."

Relieved, John relaxed. Sherlock was alive and safe. No doubt that Mycroft would at least ensure that no harm would come to his little brother. Not after he fucked up so royally with protecting John. Blinking, John started clicking things together himself. "How did you find me that quickly? I had texted Moran seconds before the crash."

James frowned as he heard the question. "Come now. That must be obvious, no? I was keeping an eye on you. I knew that neither of the Holmes boys would be able to keep you safe, so I figured that it would be better if I took matters into my own hands," he explained. "You should be grateful I did. Had I not, you would have been in some underground facility with electrodes taped to your skin."

"James," John responded, frowning. "You know that's not what they would have done at all."

The truth was much worse. They would question him and his ties with Moriarty, trying to befriend him all the while in hopes that he would open up. Once that didn't work, they would be able to start in with the "more intense interrogation methods." And he knew those all too well. John had been tortured in order to learn counter techniques in case he was captured while overseas. Originally, the Army had bigger plans for him that didn't wind up panning out due to the gunshot wound to his shoulder.

Silent for a moment, James murmured, "Yes, I know."

"Thank you anyway," John managed to say. "But I need to get back to 221B. I need to get in contact with Mycroft. I have to figure out our next move."

Licking his lips, James responded, "That's not going to be possible."

"What? Why?"

James frowned. "Think about it for a moment. The government was planning to take you in because they thought you knew something about me. And the moment they tried to, I stepped in and removed you from their grasp. What do you think that's going to say to them?"

John felt horror rush through his veins. "They're going to think that I knew something. That I was lying this whole time. Why else would you step in, after all?" He rose to his feet again and began to pace. "Jesus Christ, James! What have you done?"

"I was protecting you, John! They were going to torture you for information that you didn't have."

Laughing bitterly, John countered, "So what? They would have tortured me until they realised that I actually knew nothing."

"And how long do you think it would have taken for those berks to finally understand that you knew nothing? That you had never known anything to begin with?" James retorted angrily.

John threw his arms up in the air. "What does it matter to you, James? They would have been torturing _me,_not you!"

"Because I couldn't let that happen!" James screamed at him. John was shocked into silence, and it was James's turn to start pacing around the room. "Because the thought of you being hurt makes my blood boil. Because knowing you were going to be subjected to their stupidity because of me makes me sick to my stomach. Because I couldn't sit by and just let everything happen no matter how hard I tried. And because I knew that if anything happened to you, I would never be able to forgive myself. I wouldn't have been able to keep myself from bringing the British government to its knees."

John remained wide-eyed throughout the speech. His own blood was racing by now, and his heart pounded in his chest as those words rang through his head again and again. Of course. It was so painfully obvious now – now that they were letting each other in emotionally without the fear of one leaving the other behind. And the most ironic part of it all was the fact that James probably didn't even know what he was feeling. That such intense desire to protect someone from harm, to ensure that they are alright no matter what, was a sign of love. Slowly, James deflated. He looked smaller – wounded, almost – as he broke eye contact.

"James," he breathed out. He could hardly believe it. James Moriarty had fallen in love with him. Slowly, John rubbed his eyes. His head was swimming with all of this information. Reaching out, John cupped James's face with a hand to force their eyes to meet again. "I – um – feel the same way."

For a long moment, James just appeared confused. He stared at John, examining him closely as his eyes flickered from one spot to another. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Oh… That's why you were so scared when Sherlock told you that you were suffering from Stockholm Syndrome," James murmured, realisation washing over him. And then he started to laugh in relief. "Jesus Christ, Johnny, I never thought it was possible. I never thought you would actually…" His voice trailed off as he shook his head. "Well, that makes everything so much easier."

Cocking his head to the side, John pressed, "What do you mean?"

"Well," James said, stretching the word out as he clearly scrambled for the proper words. "You've become a fugitive, John."

John's heart stopped. Of course. The government had wanted to take him in, and he was here. By default, he was now on the run. "I'm never going back to 221B, am I?" John inquired softly. His heart was starting to break as he thought about Sherlock and Mrs Hudson – as he recalled that he was supposed to meet up with Lestrade tonight for a couple pints – as he remembered he told Sarah he would be working at the clinic tomorrow. John's life had been destroyed in the matter of seconds.

"It'll be fine," James assured him. "I've already got two fake passports for us. Just give me the word, and we can go anywhere in the world. Anything you need, I will buy once we're out of the country."

Shaking his head, John collapsed back onto the bed. He stared down at his lap. "You cannot expect me to just give up my life," he whispered. "There must be another way. There has to be."

"And what might that be?" James responded. "You cannot return to 221B. They're waiting there for you. And they're at the hospital where Sherlock's at. They've also got people waiting outside of your sister's place and your boss's and your work. Anywhere you might show up. And as soon as you show your face at any of those locations, they're going to swoop in and snatch you up. And then what will you do? Tell them the truth? Tell them that I'm in love with you?" It still sounded ridiculous to John despite the fact that he knew it was true. "They would either laugh at you or try to use you to get something from me."

"Such as? Unless you've stolen more military plans, I don't know what you could possibly give them," John pointed out.

"Myself," James responded without missing a beat. "That's what they would demand in return for your freedom and safety." A question hung in the air between them. Even so, John couldn't bring himself to ask it. He couldn't risk the confirmation of what he feared, and he couldn't bring himself to be so weak right now. But apparently, his eyes said it all, as James answered, "I would, John. You must know that by now."

John released a breath that he didn't even know he was holding. Taking a deep breath in, he remained silent for a long moment as he sat back down on the bed. "And there's no way around this? I can't – I'll never be able to go home? Never see Sherlock again? I'm just supposed to leave and never look back?"

Gradually, James shifted over to him and sat down next to him. "You won't be able to return to 221B Baker Street. Hell, you won't be able to return to the United Kingdom for a while." John covered his face with his hands as he heard this, and he felt an arm hesitantly wrap itself around his shoulders. "But I'm sure we could work something out. Send a postcard to Sherlock with a hint. He loves puzzles, and I'm sure he would double-check that he wasn't being followed before coming over. And Mycroft Holmes knows that you were telling the truth, so I am sure that he will help cover Sherlock's tracks if need be."

Despite how idealistic that all sounded, John knew that it was too good to be true. It was romanticising the fact that they would be on the run – fugitives shifting from one country to another in hopes of not being caught. And even if they could contact Sherlock and get him to come to them, there was no guarantee that that meeting would go well at all. Letting out a bitter laugh, John muttered, "So this is it. I don't even have a choice in the matter. It's either leave with you or let the government torture me." He felt so powerless. What other options did he have? Mycroft and Sherlock couldn't help him, and they were the most powerful allies he had besides James. It felt like a block of ice lodged in his stomach, and for a moment, John thought he was going to be sick.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," James offered softly. "It'll be just like before. Only better, because now you can go out and about whenever you want and do whatever you'd like. And since we both know now how we feel about each other and that there's no time limit, we can have a real relationship. I'm assuming that you're still interested…" His voice sounded incredibly hopeful, as if his idealistic side didn't process that a confession of love did not always mean that there would be a "happily-ever-after."

John listened as James tried to paint a silver lining for him, but he couldn't get over just how much he was losing for it. Never before had everything just been snatched from him without him having a say in the matter. Besides, James Moriarty was still the world's only consulting _criminal_. What were the odds that they would wind up being able to have a real relationship that lasted? And if their relationship did fizzle out, what would John do then? He wouldn't have the resources to continue living on the run. "This is too much, too fast. I can barely keep everything straight in my mind, and you expect me to make a decision about our future? About our relationship? Fuck, James, I just woke up from being drugged! How am I supposed to-?"

Abruptly, James cut in, "Do you know why I asked you to call me 'James' instead of 'Moriarty' or 'Jim?' Have you worked that out yet?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

James answered, "Because there was a reason behind my request." Baffled, John just shrugged his shoulders. "Everyone in my crime ring knew me as Moriarty. I'm the master schemer who everyone wants to hire and who everyone fears. You already knew Moriarty." John looked up to find that James was staring at the ground. "Jim is my cover. Jim from IT. Jim the boyfriend. Jim the gay man." Finally, he looked over at John. "But James – only family ever called me James. It linked me back to the time before my criminal career. It was something no one had called me in nearly twenty years. James was the person I wanted you to get to know."

John remained quiet for a moment as he took everything in. That's exactly what James had done. Somehow, they had been able to get past Moriarty's career and network. Somehow, they had managed to forge something real and special for them. And that's when John realised that he was blessed, in a way, to have James next to him in this moment. James was clearly willing to bend over backwards in order to ensure John's happiness. And although nothing was going as he wished, there was still the promise of a bright future. "Anywhere in the world?" he finally repeated. "Are you sure about that? I mean, the UK has extradition treaties with nearly every European country as well as all of North America and most of South America. Shouldn't we go somewhere where we'll be safe from government?"

"I've been doing this my whole life," James responded, giving a shrug. "I know how to keep the government off my tail. I'll scale down my consulting while we travel. It'll be a while before we can settle somewhere for any permanent stay. But we can travel wherever you want. Have you ever been to Paris? Rome? Berlin? What about Belgium? Luxembourg? Do you want to see the Alps? Venice during Carnival? The world is at your fingertips." He sounded excited about everything. It was as if James couldn't imagine a single thing going wrong. As if he was a knight in shining armour having successfully saved his damsel in distress, and now all they had to do was ride off into the sunset and live happily-ever-after.

But nothing was ever that easy. That's why such endings were in children's stories – fairy tales. John let out a shuddering laugh as his heart began to race again. He could do this. He could put on a brave face and take the only option he had open to him. After all, there was still something to gain. And despite the fact that this leap of faith terrified him, it was also exhilarating. Another chance to start anew. Another chance with James Moriarty. "How about Mallorca? The Germans I met abroad wouldn't shut up about how it was a beautiful paradise," he said, his voice a bit joking.

"Sounds like the perfect getaway," James responded, smiling at John.

And that's when John saw it in James's eyes – the love, determination, respect, and protectiveness James held for him. How he had missed it before was beyond him. Slowly, he leaned forward and pulled James into a kiss. Humming against John's lips, James melted into the touch. Finally, John understood that this man could very well become his next home.


	25. Endgame

"You're starting to burn," John warned, poking James's slightly pink skin. It was only day three of seven of their stay in Mallorca, and John found it nearly impossible to keep James from being seriously burned even when they were laying under the umbrellas. "You need to apply more sunscreen."

James let out a groan as he heard this. "I just applied an hour ago!"

"You have sensitive skin." When James just scowled at him, John rolled his eyes. "Turn your back to me."

After a moment's pause, James flipped over onto his stomach and tucked his arms underneath his head. John squirted some of the sunscreen in his hands before massaging it into James's back. Moaning, James melted into his cot as John's hands pressed and kneaded his tight muscles. It was strange to see James in swimming trunks. Hell, it was strange to see him in anything besides a Westwood suit or nice, button-down shirts and black trousers. But there they were: in bathing suits on the beaches of Mallorca. It was still all surreal. Once he was done, he trailed a hand slowly down James's spine, sliding it over each vertebrae. His mind began to slide off, returning to London and 221B. He wondered how Sherlock was doing – if he was worried about John – and how Mrs Hudson was handling losing John a second time. At the very least, he needed to try to send a signal that he was alright.

"John," James called out softly, turning and gently taking John's hand into his own.

Forcing a smile to his face, John murmured, "I'm alright."

"I'll sunscreen the rest of my body, and then we'll go swim in the ocean," James stated, grabbing the sunscreen.

John appreciated the distraction.

"Naples, Rome, and now Florence. You spoil me, James," John teased as they stepped off the train.

"Just wait until we go to Venice and Milan," James responded with a cheerful smile.

It was strange to see James so perpetually happy. By now, they had been travelling for almost two months. And although James always had to stay on his toes – to glance over his back – to ensure that no one was following, he didn't really seem to mind as long as John was right next to him. All-in-all, their travels had been going better than John expected. They were active enough during the day to keep John from being homesick, and James kept him pretty well occupied at night.

"Are you hungry?" John pressed as they grabbed their suitcases. James had – after compromising on letting John pay him back as soon as he could – bought John a new wardrobe and toiletries.

James hummed softly. "Yes. I'm feeling like seafood. Da Stefano is notorious for their seafood cuisine," he said as he tugged his jeans up slightly. John was still getting used to the new fashion style James wore, which normally consisted of a pair of jeans, a nice button-down shirt, and sometimes a brown faux-leather jacket or a scarf. John liked it because the outfits practically screamed _James_ to him. "I'm sure I could get us in."

"You always do," John responded with a laugh. He had seen James get into more than one fluent entanglement with the natives of a country. Somehow, James managed to come out on top. "Seafood sounds fantastic. Then we go to see Michelangelo's _David_."

"But first, the hotel," James stated, as they started down the street. John knew that it wouldn't be too far from the train station. They never were. It was just a small reminder that they were on the run. At literally any moment, police could descend on them and take them both into custody. "Don't think about that right now. We're safe."

The words cut into John's stream of thought, and he looked up, startled. Somehow, James always managed to see right through John. Nodding, he offered a small smile and followed James into the hotel.

"He's a bloody moron, Johnny. You should have just let me take you up on the slopes," James complained for the umpteenth time.

Rolling his eyes, John groaned, "I should have never told you." Just a week ago, John confessed that he had never gone skiing before. James had made it his goal to have John ski in the Alps by the end of the month. Now here they were, receiving a beginner's lesson from an instructor.

"Everyone should ski at least once in their life," James informed him. "But no one should ever learn how to ski from this guy."

"Then go up on the slopes!" John hissed, glaring at James. The constant complaining was starting to wear on him. "No one's got a gun to your head, James. You can do whatever the fuck you want until I'm done."

James blinked in surprise and frowned. He always became a bit sullen when John got fed up with him. "I'll wait for you in the cottage," he muttered before pressing a kiss into John's cheek. "Come get me when you're done."

"John, wake up," James said, his voice urgent.

John roused from his sleep quickly, having heard that tone of voice before. "What issit?" he slurred out, sitting up in bed.

James was zipping up their suitcases. "We have to leave. Now. Come on."

Getting up, John quickly got changed. His heart was racing in his chest as his mind processed everything. Someone was getting close to them. Close enough for them to flee. As soon as John's shoes were on, James shoved a suitcase into his hands before hurrying out the door. John trailed after him. They rushed across the lobby and were out on the street. Immediately, John began to scan the area, noting people who seemed suspicious and keeping tabs on them. He was grateful for his military training as they arrived at the train station. In the matter of minutes, James had two tickets in his hands, and they were boarding a train heading to Germany. Once they found a compartment to sit in, John kept fidgeting slightly and glancing out of the window. Small movements that wouldn't be too noticeable, but they made him feel better. Finally, the train started to roll. Even so, John was still on edge.

"We're fine," James stated as he got up and sat next to John. Carefully, he wrapped an arm around John's shoulders and pulled him down and into him. "We have a couple of hours on them at least. You can relax."

Nodding, John shifted a bit to become comfortable and closed his eyes. "Well, Vienna was nice while we were here," he commented jokingly.

A firm kiss pressed into the top of his head. "Indeed."

James was, as far as John knew, fluent in Spanish, Italian, German, and French. He always spoke on their behalf – always arranged everything – always translated newspaper articles or the menu for John. It always looked and sounded like gibberish to John, so he always listened in fascination as James communicated in ways that John knew he never would be able to. He had tried to learn Spanish while in school and failed miserably at it.

They were in the middle of Oktoberfest and enjoying the most delicious beer John had ever tasted. James had gotten into a discussion with one of the Germans there. As always, John waited patiently as they spoke, enjoying the foreign sounds leaving James's lips, and drank his beer slowly. For a while, he took in the sights and sounds that filled the air here. It was different than anything else he had ever experienced before. Germans would start singing randomly, and people would chatter despite differences in nationalities or languages. It was wonderful to see so many people together, celebrating together.

Suddenly, Moriarty's voice captured John's attention. He turned sharply to see that their conversation had escalated into an argument. Words were being spat out faster than John thought possible, and he managed to pick out "Politik." Politics was never a good thing for James to get into. Instinctively, John reached out and wrapped his arm around James's waist, bringing him in close. James looked over in surprise before relaxing. He wrapped his arm around John's shoulders, and his voice immediately softened as he spoke. The German being spoken to looked surprised for a moment before nodding and calming down as well.

"It's not as pretty as I thought it would be," John commented as they waited in line. His head was craned to look up the metal bits of the Eiffel Tower.

James laughed as he heard this. "I thought the same thing when I first saw it. It looks much better at night."

"When you can't see it?" John clarified, chuckling.

James grinned in response. "No, you git, because it's lit up at night."

Before John could say another word, they arrived at the security station. They shifted through it, neither of them having anything that needed to be confiscated thanks to James's foresight. On the lift, they reached the first level and got off. The sun was just starting to set, meaning Paris would soon be covered in darkness. As John gazed out at the foreign territory, he frowned as he realised just how far yet close to London he was. His heart ached slightly as he thought about Sherlock. Maybe he was on a case right now, sprinting though the streets of London or bribing his homeless network to help him. John had, at the very least, been able to send a postcard to 221B. James had written a coded message that, when translated, told Sherlock that John was perfectly safe and sound, even using their code word for such situations in order to ensure that Sherlock knew it was really from John.

"Let's go to the top," James murmured in John's ear, pulling his hand.

John hummed in response, absentmindedly following James. They headed up to the next floor and emerged. John walked to the nearest open ledge and stared out at Paris. After a long moment of silence, John murmured, "I still miss London."

"I know."

"It's not that I don't appreciate all of this," John continued defensively, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

Once more, James repeated, "I know."

"I've done my best to acclimate to this life, but it sometimes just isn't enough," John said before he thought everything through.

James leaned against the railing and looked out. "I'm trying," he muttered bitterly.

"I know. And I appreciate it. Really, I do. But you can't-" John paused and tried to collect his thoughts. "I'm going to miss London every now and again. I'm going to miss Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and Hell, even Harry! I'm going to miss them all. And that's alright, James. It doesn't mean that I regret coming with you. It doesn't mean that I'm going to sneak out in the middle of the night in order to return there and just hope for the best. I'm happy with you, too. But I'm going to miss things every now and again. You don't have to try to distract me every time I do."

James didn't say anything. He merely stood next to John, their shoulders touching, and watched the sun dip behind the horizon.

"John!" James moaned out as John continued to thrust into his arse. Their flesh met in claps as John grabbed headboard in order to gain more leverage and move faster. James had braced himself off the headboard as well in order to take John properly. "I-I'm-" he tried to get out before he came hard on himself.

"That's it, James," John murmured as he watched. Seeing James lose control like that just helped push John closer to the edge. Before he knew it, he pitched back his head and came hard, unable to ride out his orgasm too well as his body tensed up. James's name came out in a distorted moan. Once he was spent, he pulled out and quickly tied off and pitched the condom. James went to get up to clean himself off, but John pushed him back down. "Stay."

"What are you-?" James started to ask.

John lowered his head and licked up a swipe of cum. Immediately, James let out a moan. His hands tangled in John's hair as John slowly but surely licked up every drop of cum on James's body. Once he was done, he slid up James's body and said, "You're all cleaned up now."

"Jesus Christ, John," James breathed out. "If I hadn't just come, I would have gotten so hard from that. Fuck."

Chuckling, John leaned in for another kiss when he heard a rapping on the front door. Both of them exchanged looks. They had rented a place in the French countryside, so no one should be visiting – especially not at that hour.

"Grab the gun," James warned, his voice darkening slightly.

John nodded and shifted over, pulling the pistol out of the nightstand. He pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers before heading to the front door. With the gun behind his back, he opened it. His arm went slack as he saw who was standing on the other side of the door. "Sherlock," he whispered as his brain continued to click the pieces together. Without thinking, he yanked Sherlock forward and grasped him in a tight hug. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, how did you…?"

"I sent him a postcard with a coded message," James said, emerging from the bedroom in pyjama bottoms as well. John felt his heart swell as he heard this. James had done this for him – had sent out a message to Sherlock without John's prompting because he knew that it was important to John. "How long did it take you?"

"Not very long," Sherlock said gruffly as John released him.

"Three days?" James pressed.

Sherlock scoffed. "Please."

"Two days?"

"You're flattering yourself," Sherlock retorted.

James grinned. "Two days then. I have to say that I was expecting you to break it in one. You've lost your edge without me there to keep you on your toes."

"I'm just as sharp and brilliant as ever," Sherlock snapped back before stepping into the cottage and closing the door. "Now if you don't mind."

Humming, James yanked John into a kiss. It was a statement to Sherlock. _He is mine._ And John allowed it if only because James had called Sherlock up to meet with him. Once their lips broke, James headed back into the bedroom. John made some tea, and he and Sherlock stayed up the rest of the night just talking – trying to catch up with each other and laughing all the while.

"What do you think of this flat?" James inquired as they walked into the third one that day. Since coming to the Netherlands, James had been determined to find a flat for whatever reason. They were now in Vaals.

John bit back a groan. Looking around, he noticed that it was the furthest thing from modern, probably built in the 80s, but at least some of the appliances and rooms had been updated and upgraded since then. He shook his head. "I just don't like it. I don't like any of the flats here. Why are we wasting our time doing this? Shouldn't we – I don't know – be en route to Brussels or something."

James didn't say anything for a long moment. "Do you know how long we've been traveling, John?" John tried to quickly calculate, but James answered before he could figure it out. "It's been just over a year."

John was surprised to hear that. It just seemed that it hadn't been that long. Hell, he had only seen Sherlock… Pausing a moment, he tried to backtrack the time. His eyes widened slightly as he realised that it had been three months. _Three months._ "Alright," he murmured.

"We probably have another six months traveling before we can settle anywhere, but I want to have a place lined up for when that time comes," James explained softly. "This location is ideal considering the nearby borders to Germany and Belgium. Should we be found, they wouldn't be sure where we had fled."

John muttered a faint, "Oh." It was strange to think that they would have… all of this. A place to call home for more than two weeks. "Why don't we try something in Liechtenstein? It's squished between Switzerland and Austria. Same basis, right? And I thought the country was remarkably beautiful."

James perked up as soon as he heard the suggestion.

"Congratulations," Moran said with a nod. "It's a lovely home."

John laughed as he heard that. In the end, James had pulled all the stops in order to ensure that they owned a modernised house. He had dragged John to countless stores in order to buy the perfect furniture and choose paint. In the end, the slightly old-fashioned and homey feel of 221B had mixed perfectly with James's taste for up-to-date technology and modern-day furniture. "Thanks."

"Liechtenstein, though. I have to say I'm surprised. I thought the Boss would take you back to his old stomping ground," Moran explained.

Suddenly, James commented, "I still intend to. We're just going to lay low here a bit longer. Five months at least. Then we'll go back to Ireland and spend the rest of our lives there, given that the governments are just as incompetent as ever."

Moran grinned widely. "Let me assure you, they still are."

"And your assignment?" Moriarty pressed vaguely. Even now, Moriarty kept John from knowing too much about his network and inner workings in order to keep him safe.

With a curt nod, Moran answered, "Successful, as always. Ready for the next."

"I'll keep you informed when another comes around," Moriarty replied. He had pulled back from consulting while on the run with John. Not entirely. Of course not, as it gave him something to do when John was sleeping too long or when he got bored. Besides, he still had to keep a presence in the world so the British government didn't think it had won. Although John wasn't entirely comfortable with it, he felt better now that Moriarty was taking on smaller projects instead of mass-scaled ones.

Moran murmured, "I'm looking forward to it." Suddenly, his attention turned back to John. "Why don't you give me the grand tour then?"

John flushed slightly. This was something that couples did once they got a place together. Something normal about his relationship with James. With a small smile on his face, he cleared his throat and asked, "How about we start in the kitchen?"

"Sherlock's coming to visit us," John stated as he walked into the living room. They were new to this flat, having moved back to Ireland only a week ago, and he wound up bumping into the coffee table as he headed around towards the sofa.

Raising an eyebrow, James pressed, "Already?"

"I used the secure Internet connection to Skype him. He deduced that something major happened between the two of us, and he wants to see me immediately. He'll be coming in tomorrow morning after ensuring that he isn't being followed… just in case," John stated as he flopped down onto the sofa with his tea. He crossed his ankles and moved his feet onto James's lap.

Humming, James murmured sarcastically, "I wonder what on Earth he could have deduced."

John subconsciously touched the ring on his finger. A small smile graced his features. "I have no idea," he lied.

"James?" John called out cautiously. He had woken up from a nightmare in the middle of the night to find the bed empty.

After a moment, he heard a response. "I'm still here, John. I'll be right there."

Sitting up, John trembled as he waited for James. At the very least, he knew that he hadn't been screaming this time. James would have never left him alone had he been screaming. Suddenly, James's silhouette appeared in the doorway. He came inside and sat down on the bed carefully before offering John a mug of tea. Gracious, John accepted it and took a sip, his hands still shaking. James slipped in next to him and waited patiently as John gradually calmed down. He leaned into James, not ashamed to depend on him anymore.

"I-it was- Tom- I…" John tried to spit out, wanting to communicate what was wrong.

Shushing him, James pressed a kiss into John's temple and held his free hand, his thumb lightly stroking John's palm. "It's fine. You don't have to explain a thing."

John just bobbed his head up and down. Closing his eyes, he rested against James as he took another sip of tea. Eventually, he began to doze again, and his mug was taken away. James shifted them down in bed and engulfed John, running a hand soothingly down his back as he tangled their legs together. John couldn't help but relax. He was perfectly safe here. _This_ had, despite all odds, become his permanent home. Right here. With James.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope that you all have enjoyed my story! Sorry if it looks intimidating, but I just wanted to get it entirely posted so that no one else would have the gall to repost it again to this site. THAT BEING SAID! If you DO see this reposted anywhere on this site or on another site (except for my AO3 account, which has the same username), PLEASE REPORT IT AND MESSAGE ME. "Pawn Takes King" alone took me over 6 months to write, and I don't feel others should receive praise for my hard work.


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